A Fork in the Road
by yankeebornandbred
Summary: Discontinued. Rewritten as No End in Sight.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, readers! Just to let you know this will be a somewhat slow-moving story at first, but everything has a purpose. It will likely get more interesting later on (around second to third year), but it will not make as much sense if you don't read the earlier chapters (which are of course interesting as well, I like to think). I wasn't able to put many characters on the list, but this story will also have Gabriel, Lucifer, Ron, Hermione, and possibly some other angels as well as the supporting characters from Harry Potter.**

 **Update on 12/30/15: I've developed the storyline a lot since I first started writing this over seven months ago, and I have structured the story itself into three books, each roughly 20-25 chapters long. I won't upload them as separate stories, however. When I've completed them all, I will post a epilogue and then the outline so that you can see the sequence of events clearly and also spot some of the references I make throughout.**

 **Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me except for parts of the story line and my little twists. Things you recognize are probably from the books or TV show. I did take portions of the book in this chapter and copy/paste them, but I won't continue to do so as my story takes its own course.**

 **Thanks for taking the time to read this! You don't have to review but it would be great motivation for me to update. Unless you don't want me to update, which is also fine. Constructive criticism is appreciated, but flames are a waste of your own time. By all means, however, go ahead and flame if you like. It ups the total review count!**

* * *

BOOK ONE

Chapter I

* * *

Harry winced as a train whistled past him, his thick black hair ruffling messily. Annoyed, he tried to flatten it, eventually giving up and glancing around himself once more.

People were bustling around him right and left; he tried to catch someone's attention, but he was after all a small and skinny boy in a crowded train station. A rather thickset gentlemen bumped into him, nearly bowling him over and making Hedwig flap and squawk in indignation. Harry tried his best to calm her while juggling his pile of baggage. She eyed him long-sufferingly. Her sleek white feathers were still drenched from the water some loathsome old lady had spilled over her cage.

After staring helplessly at the "Platform 9" sign for a long time, Harry tapped the shoulder of an attendant who was pacing nearby.

"Excuse me," he said, politely. "Can you tell me where Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters is?"

The attendant looked at him oddly.

"Are you all right, sonny?"

While not unkind, he sounded incredulous. Harry pursed his lips.

"Yes, I'm fine. Sorry for bothering you."

As he walked away, the man muttered under his breath, "Nine-and-Three-Quarters, indeed. Whatever's gotten into the youngsters these days?"

Harry sighed and straightened the bag that was slipping down his shoulder. It was getting later; according to the time Hagrid had given him, the enigmatic train would be leaving in about fifteen minutes. He felt tired and dirty from the dust that the train wheels kicked up, and his arms ached from the weight of the luggage. Hogwarts was probably all a hoax after all. But he waited. The thought of returning to his smug relatives was even more unbearable than the prospect of spending the night at a dusty train station.

He was saved from this fate by the arrival of a large family. It was comprised almost entirely of boys - the only exceptions were the mother and the youngest. What really caught his attention was the content of their conversation.

"Hurry along, all of you, we're nearly late for the Hogwarts Express. Now then, Ron, you've got dirt all over your face. What kind of impression do you think you're going to make on the teachers?"

The youngest redheaded boy tried to squirm out of his mother's grip.

"Mum!" he complained, flushing. "Everyone's staring at me."

Two of the older boys, by their appearances identical twins, gleefully continued for their mother.

"Poor ickle Ronniekins," said one.

"You're going to be snubbed by everyone," continued the other gravely.

"For a dirty speck on your nose," finished the first, tenderly.

They both took hold of their younger brother and started to scrub his face with their own none-too-clean handkerchiefs.

"Ow!" said the boy called Ron. "Stop it!"

The oldest glared down superciliously at the rowdy trio through the horn-rimmed glasses perched on his long nose. Their mother scolded them.

"It's all right, Mother," Glasses Boy said. "I'll keep them out of trouble."

"Thank you, Percy, dear. Now, hurry up. We haven't got much time. Fred, you go first."

The twin she had spoken to looked aggrieved. "I'm not Fred, I'm George. Honestly, woman, you call yourself our mother."

"Oh, I'm sorry, George, dear," she replied absently.

The boy flashed a grin at her.

"Just kidding, I really am Fred."

Fred pushed his cart quickly towards the barrier between the platforms, vanishing a split second before he hit the wall. Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters. In a flash, everything made much more sense. Of course a wizarding train station wouldn't be in the middle of a normal human one. If they were trying to keep it a secret, they wouldn't leave it out in the open. The platform had to be under a spell.

Pressing his lips together to hide a nervous grin, Harry trotted towards the woman, his bags scraping against the ground awkwardly.

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, dear?"

"I... is that how you get to Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters?"

"Yes, dear. Is this your first year?"

Harry nodded.

"It's Ron's, too. Just take your stuff and walk right through the wall there. If you've never done it before, you should run. It's much easier that way."

It didn't sound very easy at all; in fact, it sounded very risky. There did not seem to be much of a choice, however. The train was leaving in seven minutes.

"All right. Thank you."

"It's no problem, dear. Go right ahead. Ron can go after you."

He ignored the fluttery sensation in his stomach and squared his shoulders, hoping that the impact wouldn't be too painful. To his surprise, the wall felt like absolutely nothing. It shimmered a little as he passed through. Having braced himself for a violent collision, he lost his balance and tripped, nearly falling before he stumbled to a stop.

Misty steam blanketed a quaint old station. A brightly painted train with Hogwarts Express inscribed on its side was puffing gently on the tracks. Above him, swinging merrily on its hooks, was a sign that read, "Platform 9 & 3/4." His heart gave a glad jump.

Something collided heavily against his back and he tumbled to the ground. His bags went flying and Hedwig's cage tipped, rolling over and over away from him. The owl gave a outraged screech and fluttered in agitation.

Harry scrambled to his feet. Ron stared at him sheepishly. His cart was tipped on its side and the trunk that had occupied it had burst, its contents spilling all over the pavement.

"Awfully sorry about that," said Ron, embarrassed. "I didn't know you were standing there."

He took the hand that Harry offered and pulled himself up. Staring around himself in consternation, he rubbed his head and sighed.

"Awfully sorry," he repeated. "Let's hurry up and move all of this stuff out of the way before someone else comes barreling through."

By the time they had gathered their spilled belongings, they were panting with exertion. Harry sat on his trunk as Hedwig began to hoot despondently. He stuck a finger through the bars of her cage and stroked her silky head feathers to soothe her.

"We'd better board the train," Ron sighed. "Come on. By the way, I'm Ron... Ron Weasley. I guess my mum told you that."

Harry grinned. "Yeah. I'm Harry. Pleased to meet you."

Ron's eyes widened.

"Harry Potter?"

Harry frowned.

"Yes. Why?"

"Really? This is so cool!"

"What do you mean?" asked Harry, puzzled.

Ron gaped at him.

"You mean you... you don't know?"

"Know what?"

Now Harry was even more mystified.

"That you're the most famous wizard in the wizarding world! You defeated You... You-Know-Who when you were only one year old! Is it really true, do you have the scar?"

Although still somewhat bewildered, Harry nodded. He pushed up his shock of dark hair to reveal the jagged scar carved across his forehead. Ron gazed at it in awe.

"This is so cool," he repeated.

The train whistled loudly, and they both started.

"All aboard!"

They stared at each other for a split second in consternation.

"Bloody hell."

Harry lunged for his bags and Hedwig's cage in panic. How on earth could he have forgotten that the train was about to leave? They sprinted past teary-eyed parents who were waving and calling out last minute advice. The train was puffing more briskly now. Mrs. Weasley met them half-way, her plump, motherly face a picture of alarm.

"What in Merlin's name were you doing? The train's leaving, Ron!"

"Mum!" Ron protested, chagrined, as she kissed him wetly. He tried to escape her attention by grabbing hold of Harry's sleeve.

"This is Harry Potter, Mum."

Mrs. Weasley glared at him.

"I know, Ron," she said reprovingly. "And you're being very rude."

Ron looked ashamed.

"Now, both of you, run along. It's going to leave without you. Goodbye, Ron." She kissed his cheek again. "I love you. Don't follow the twins' lead. Be a good boy like Percy."

Ron wrinkled his nose at Harry behind his mother's back, mouthing "Percy" in what seemed to be a derisive manner.

"And goodbye to you, too, Harry."

Harry started as her arms wrapped around him.

"Thank you," he said hesitantly as he pulled away.

She gave him a small smile before hurrying them to the train.

"Goodbye!" she called as they hauled themselves and their things up the steps. "Have a good year! Pay attention during class and don't get into trouble."

"Yes, Mum," Ron called back behind him, pushing Harry forward into the car as train began to jerk and move forward.

Mrs. Weasley was still calling something out to them, but Harry could no longer hear her. The two boys made their way into an empty compartment, swaying in synchrony with the rough motion of the train. Ron collapsed with a relieved sigh on one of the cushioned benches, abandoning his bags on the floor. Harry gazed around himself with a thrill of excitement and wonder. He slowly lowered himself on the seat across from Ron, running his fingers across the smooth, wooden armrests.

"Mum's always like that," Ron told him, yawning. The scenery was flashing by the window in greens and grays. Harry stared at his reflection in the clear glass.

"That's nice," he said vaguely.

Ron scoffed, his head flopping backwards.

"It gets pretty annoying. I guess it is kind of nice, though," he admitted.

A stewardess knocked on the door of their compartment and they looked up simultaneously. Her cart was full of sweets. Harry's eyes brightened, but Ron groaned and closed his eyes, settling deeper into the seat.

"Please," said Harry, rooting in his pockets for the gold coins he had gotten from Gringotts. "I'll take all of it."

Both Ron's and the woman's eyes widened. Excited, Harry poured the money into her hands and dragged the cart closer. He took out one of the Chocolate Frogs, tossing it to Ron, who nearly dropped it in surprise.

"Come on," said Harry, grinning at him. "We can share the old thing."

"It's all right, I don't want it," said Ron, his eyes telling a different story.

"Oh, come on," Harry coaxed. "I wasn't going to eat it all myself, and I've never had this much stuff before. It looks good."

Ron seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then he grinned at Harry and started to rip the wrapping of the Chocolate Frog.

"What did you mean when you said you'd never had it before?" he asked presently.

"I didn't say that," Harry said, licking the sticky, melted chocolate from his fingers. "I just said that I've never had this much. My cousin let me have a piece of his once, one that he didn't want. It was good... a little old and musty, though."

Ron looked baffled.

"Your cousin _let_ you have an _old piece of his_ ," he repeated incredulously, sitting forward. "But you're... you're famous! Don't you have loads of money?"

Uncomfortably, Harry looked away from him.

"I didn't even know about wizards until around two months ago," he confessed, abashed. "I didn't know I was famous, and I certainly wasn't rich. I lived with my aunt and uncle. They didn't like me very much," he concluded dolefully.

Ron's eyes bugged out.

"You mean you didn't know you defeated You-Know-Who?" he spluttered.

Harry shook his head.

"You didn't even know you were a _wizard_?"

Harry ducked his head in embarrassment.

"Well, I'll be dashed," said Ron wonderingly. He did not speak again for several minutes, and the atmosphere began to feel distinctly uncomfortable.

"You... you have a lot of brothers and sisters, don't you?" Harry asked, in a wretched attempt to break the silence.

"Well, there's Percy, and the twins, Fred and George. Ginny's the youngest and she's the only girl. You've seen all of them. And then Bill and Charlie are off on their own."

"That's a lot of people. Doesn't your house get a bit crowded?"

Ron made a face. "Oh, it does. And I have to share a room with the twins, which is really bad, because they play pranks on me all the time. You know, they switched my pillow for a joke one once, so that every time I started to fall asleep it would yank itself out from under my head."

Harry snorted with laughter.

"Oi," Ron said indignantly. "It wasn't funny… it was a mean trick to pull. You'd think they'd be nicer to me. I'm their only little brother, after all."

"It sounds fun."

Ron gave him a sharp look.

"Sometimes," he conceded. "It's mostly just tiresome, though. What about you? I mean, your family?"

"I haven't anything to tell. My aunt and uncle aren't really… family." Harry shifted. "And obviously I don't know that much about my parents."

Ron looked stricken.

"I'm sorry, I..."

"No, don't worry about it," Harry assured him. "I don't remember them anyway."

He exhaled, and was glad when a second knock sounded at the door. From the look on Ron's face, he was relieved as well.

This time it was a girl. She had already changed into her Hogwarts robes (he was already beginning to get a feel for her personality) and her bushy hair puffed out over the collar. She gave their depleted supply of candy a look of revulsion.

"Have either of you seen a toad?"

Whatever he had been expecting, it hadn't been that. Her tone was imperious, but the question was so odd and silly that he wasn't sure what to say.

"A... a toad?"

"Yes, a toad," she said impatiently. "Because Neville's lost his, and he feels terrible about it."

"No." Harry shook his head earnestly. "I haven't seen a toad. Would you like a Chocolate Frog?"

For a moment, she looked hesitant. Harry nodded towards the seat next to him.

"You can sit down, if you like."

"Thanks," she said uncertainly, a flash of something darting through her eyes. She sat down on the edge of the seat primly and took the Chocolate Frog he had handed to her. "I'd better introduce myself. I'm Hermione Granger. What are your names?"

"I'm Ron, Ron Weasley."

"I'm Harry."

"Oh," she perked up in interest. "Harry Potter?"

He had hoped she wouldn't have the same reaction as Ron. It made him feel frightfully awkward.

"Yes."

"That's interesting," she remarked, taking a bite of her Chocolate Frog and hurriedly swallowing it before continuing, "I've read all about you in _Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and _Modern Magical History_. They have your complete biography in them... or at least the part that has to do with Voldemort."

Ron visibly flinched.

"Don't say his name," he hissed. "It's bad luck."

Hermione waved her hand dismissively.

"You needn't be afraid of a name," she said sagaciously. "That's all it is, a name."

Ron flushed.

"I'm not afraid. I just don't like it."

"Fine," Hermione replied, with more tolerance than understanding. "I'll say You-Know-Who, then."

Ron grunted. Harry watched this exchange with a mixture of amusement and interest.

"So where are you from, Herm... Herm..."

"Her-MI-one," she said helpfully. "I'm from London. My parents are dentists."

"They're Muggles?" Ron asked curiously.

Harry cocked his head in confusion, but Hermione's face changed.

"Yes," she snapped, her tone defensive. "Why?"

Ron shrugged.

"No reason. I like Muggles. They're so interesting... and different."

Hermione relaxed.

"Oh. I..."

She was cut off by the sound of someone clearing his throat. At the door of their compartment were three boys. The youngest and shortest one seemed to be in charge. He was still rather tall (the others were elephants) and he was dressed in his school robes as Hermione was. His features were pale and twisted in a sneer that looked unusually spiteful for such a young boy.

"So you're the famous Harry Potter," he said. "My name is Draco Malfoy."

He glanced about the compartment, his eyes narrowing as he noticed the other occupants. His sneer deepened.

"What are you doing with a blood-traitor and a muggle-born?"

Both Ron and Hermione unconsciously stiffened. Harry frowned, disliking the tension that was seeping into the room.

"What are you talking about?"

Malfoy's pale eyebrows rose.

"There are certain sorts of people you should associate with and others you shouldn't, if you understand what I mean."

"I don't," said Harry, his brow furrowing. "But I do think I'm the one who knows who I'd like to associate with. Besides, I don't think the bodyguard was necessary."

Malfoy glanced at the two burly boys who stood behind him.

"All right, then," he said impatiently. "You can go."

They stared at him for a moment rather stupidly before lumbering off down the passageway. Malfoy stood awkwardly in the doorway and looked at the floor.

"You can come in, if you like," said Harry.

Malfoy seemed to come to himself.

"Of course," he said smoothly. "As long as the Mudblood doesn't mind sitting next to a Malfoy."

Moments later, he was stumbling back out of the compartment, holding his nose.

"Don't you go around calling her names! Get out of here." Ron slammed the door viciously. "That'll teach him, bloody git."

Muttering, he threw himself back onto his seat.

"What does Mudblood mean?" Harry asked, hesitantly.

"It's a derogatory manner of addressing witches and wizards born in the Muggle world," Hermione explained, sounding subdued. "I've come across it in some of the books at Flourish and Blotts. Muggle is the wizard word for a nonmagical human." She glanced at Ron quickly. "Thank you. You didn't have to do that."

Ron rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

"It's okay. Forget it. Do you want to play Exploding Snap?"

* * *

It was hours later when they heard the conductor shout, "Hogwarts in five minutes!" Hermione made a choked, panicky noise in the back of her throat.

"Hurry!" she urged, dragging them up. "Put on your robes, you've got to hurry! We're going to be there really soon... Come on, Harry! Ron, put away the cards! Oh! I forgot, my things are in the other compartment!"

She fled. Harry looked at Ron bemusedly. Ron shrugged and sat down again.

In the end, they had to scramble for their bags and the remaining candy as everyone began to disembark. Ron was still chewing frantically on a last Chocolate Frog as he and Harry lugged their trunks down the steps. Harry heard a deep, familiar voice coming from somewhere near them in the mist.

"Firs' years this way! Firs' years follow me."

"Hagrid!" Harry called out. He hurried towards the voice, leaving Ron to scurry after him. "Hagrid, it's me, Harry!"

The mist parted and the half-giant scooped him up, beaming all over his large face.

"'Ey, 'Arry! 'Ow are you? Come on, firs' years take the boats."

Hagrid disappeared again into the fog. Puffing, Ron halted at Harry's shoulder.

"Oi, why'd you go running off on me?"

"Sorry," said Harry, still peering through the fog and trying to see Hagrid. "Come along. First years to the boats, he said."

They followed the wide stream of students, eventually breaking off with a smaller group that headed down to the lake, with Hagrid at the head of the procession, holding aloft a lighted lantern. There was a line of small rowboats at the edge of the water. Harry boarded one along with Ron, but Hermione was too far away to join them. Once all the first years were settled, the boats began to glide across the smooth surface of the lake. There was nothing visible pulling them or inciting the forward motion; Harry could feel tendrils of magic gently tow them in.

Everyone was very silent. The only sound was the chink of the lantern swinging, and the sloshing of water against the sides of the boats. Suddenly, Ron jabbed Harry in the ribs. He pointed at the towers of the large structure that had just entered their field of vision. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

"Harry," he whispered. "We're going to be sorted soon."

"What does that mean?"

"You really don't know much at all, do you? There are four Houses; Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. First year, you get sorted into one of them. Fred and George said that in order to find out where you belong to have to pass a test. They said we'd have to fight a dragon."

Harry wrinkled his nose.

"They were probably just trying to scare you," he said. "After all, nobody's going to make eleven-year-olds fight a dragon. It's far too dangerous."

Ron looked slightly reassured, but still skeptical.

"I don't know. They really might. And Fred and George would know."

The boats scraped up against the pebbly shore. Hagrid jumped out, holding the lantern high.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," he boomed. "Follow me, we're going inside."

They trooped obediently behind them. Someone pushed past Harry's elbow roughly, making him stumble. It was Draco, looking furious and still sporting a bloody nose. His two bodyguards walked before him to clear the path. Harry tried to suppress a grin.

They seemed to walk through endless stone corridors. Finally Hagrid stopped in front of two ornate wooden doors. He turned to face a sea of faces, some eager and some frightened.

"This 'ere's the Great Hall. You'll be sorted before dinner. Go on in."

He threw the heavy doors open with ease. For a moment, no one moved. Then Harry was being swept forward by a crowd of excited new students. He caught a glimpse of the four large tables, each with a different colored banner hanging above it. The occupants had been chattering loudly, but a wave of cheering spread through the room as the new students entered.

At the head of the room was another, smaller table that faced the others. It was clearly the professors' table; there were only adults seated at it. In the middle there was a old man wearing a robe and pointed hat with matching patterns of stars. His eyes twinkled merrily, his long white beard hiding his mouth. He stood up and clapped his hands as the clamor died down.

"The very best of evenings to you all!" he said loudly. "To our new students, welcome! To our old students, welcome back! Another year full of magical education awaits you! Bring out the Sorting Hat, please, Professor McGonagall."

"That's Dumbledore," Ron whispered confidentially, nudging Harry's side. "He's a brilliant wizard. Dad says he's the best. He's even on Chocolate Frog cards… I got him in the train, do you remember?"

The stern woman who stood at Dumbldore's right produced a rather dusty, pointed brown hat. She placed it on the tall wooden stool that stood before the professors' table. Ron looked very relieved. In a moment, a startling deep voice rang out through the room. With a jolt of surprise, Harry realized that the Sorting Hat was singing. It was fascinating, but Professor McGonagall merely looked impatient. When the hat had finished, she began to call out names quickly.

"Abbott, Hannah!"

A small girl tripped to the front of the room and clambered onto the stool, trembling with excitement. On went the hat.

"Hufflepuff!" it roared. The girl took it off, blushing as she took her place among the clapping members of her new house.

Several names later, McGonagall called, "Granger, Hermione!"

Harry craned his head to see the familiar bushy head moving forward. Hermione sat on the stool stiffly, her hands clasped on her lap, and bit her lip in anticipation.

"Gryffindor!"

When the hat came off, she was beaming. She skipped to the Gryffindor table and was greeted with cheers and hearty handshakes. As she was swallowed up by her blabbering housemates, she turned towards Harry and Ron and waved wildly in exultation.

"Longbottom, Neville!"

Harry supposed this must have been the Neville who had lost his toad in the train. He was a clumsy, nervous boy, but looked friendly and good-natured. Another Gryffindor.

"Malfoy, Draco!"

The boy stepped forward frigidly. His nose was cleaner, but his face was still bruised. Before the hat even touched his blond head, it yelled confidently, "Slytherin!"

A small, satisfied smirk manifested on Draco's childish face. He hopped off the stool and walked unhurriedly to the Slytherin table. His eyes had darkened with pride and his manner reeked of self-importance.

"Potter, Harry!"

The entire room fell silent. Harry rose in the stillness and made his way to the stool. He sat down carefully, gripping the edges tightly with his fingers as the hat slipped over his head and eyes. It was dark and cool inside, but he could feel the deafening silence of the room pressing about him. For a moment, nothing happened and a cold fear ran through him. Was he not going to be sorted? Had the hat decided he wasn't fit for... Then a soft voice began to speak in its head.

"Ah, Harry Potter. But you're not just Harry Potter. This is most curious... it's never happened to me before..."

 _What?_

"You don't know? Well, I won't ruin it for you then. I think it's something you're to find out on your own. Now, where shall I put you? You've brains, I'll give you that. Enough for Ravenclaw. Some of that Hufflepuff loyalty, too. And you're... oh, you're rather cunning. Very ambitious. Slytherin qualities if ever I've seen any. Brave as a Gryffindor should be. This is a quandry. Any opinion? No? I'll have to choose on my own, then."

The little voice disappeared from his head. The silence seemed to drag on.

"Slytherin!" the hat barked loudly.

A surprised murmur traveled through the tables. Harry blinked as the hat was lifted from his head. The students were staring at him and whispering behind their hands. He glanced at McGonagall in uncertainty. She motioned him towards the Slytherin table.

The Slytherins did not give him the hearty greeting of the Gryffindors, but a few of them nodded affably at him. Some gave him curious glances. Draco looked at him queerly before averting his eyes. Harry sat down quietly to watch the rest of the sorting.

Ron went into Gryffindor, where he was loudly congratulated by the twins. Percy shook his hand gravely and Hermione gave him an awkward hug. Harry frowned a little. For a moment, he wished he had been sorted into Gryffindor. He strained his ears, but couldn't hear their conversation beyond a low murmur. His concentration was broken when he noticed the affronted looks he was receiving from his own housemates.

"Ravenclaw!" the hat shouted.

The final first year, a boy, hurried to the Ravenclaw table. There was a very last round of applause as Dumbledore stood up and clapped for silence. Trays and bowls of mouth-watering food appeared on the tables.

"Before we begin our banquet," Dumbledore announced, beaming, "I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you."

Harry felt rather taken back, but the little speech did not seem particularly alarming to anyone else. One of the Slytherin boys near him mumbled, "Crazy old coot, he is," and started to eat along with the rest. Harry blinked and reached for a bowl of lamb chops. It was delicious. He couldn't remember ever having eaten something like it. He licked the sauce messily off the top of his lip.

"It's good, isn't it?" commented the girl who was sitting on his left.

"Yes, awfully," Harry agreed.

The girl laughed, not unpleasantly, and flipped her straight, dark hair over her shoulder.

"So you're Harry Potter." She looked him up and down appraisingly, a flicker of amusement in her blue eyes. "You're a bit scrawny," she observed. "Keep eating. You need some meat on your bones. I'm Margaret Lestrange. Third year."

Harry swallowed his mouthful of lamb. "Pleased to meet you, Margaret."

"Likewise. You know," she commented, "everyone thought that you'd end up in Gryffindor."

Her nose wrinkled a little as she said the word, as though it was distasteful to her, but she refrained from making any snide remark.

"The Sorting Hat had trouble placing me," Harry explained. "I'm not sure why it chose Slytherin. I've already made two friends. They're both in Gryffindor," he concluded, mournfully stabbing a square of boiled potato. Margaret pursed her lips.

"That's too bad. But let me give you a word of advice. Don't get close to people from other Houses. It isn't appreciated."

"What do you mean?"

She shrugged.

"Nothing really. Just be careful, that's all."

The main courses disappeared and tiered dishes of sweets appeared in their place: ice cream, chocolate cake, pumpkin tart, chocolate éclairs, and jam doughnuts. Margaret laughed when she saw Harry's wide eyes.

"Looks good, doesn't it?" she said, reaching for an éclair. She popped the creamy chocolate confection into her mouth. Harry wavered for a moment before following her lead.

"So where do we sleep here?" he asked, his mouth full of chocolate.

"It depends on which house you're in. Slytherin is down in the dungeons. It gets cold in the winter, but thankfully it's quiet."

"What about Gryffindor?"

She gave him a sharp look.

"Potter," she said seriously. "You should really tone down on the Gryffindor stuff. I'm telling you, it's dangerous."

"It's okay," said Harry. "I'll be fine."

She raised her eyebrows skeptically.

"All right, whatever you say. The Gryffindor dormitories are up in the Gryffindor tower behind the Fat Lady painting. But you can't get in; you'll only know the Slytherin password."

Their conversation was interrupted by Professor McGonagall's announcement.

"Prefects, lead your tables to your dormitories! Be quiet and orderly, all of you. Single file, please."

Everyone stood up at once, disregarding the last two instructions. In the middle of the chaos, a hand grabbed Harry's sleeve and dragged him through a gap in the crowd. Margaret grinned down at him.

"You don't want to get lost on your first night."

He nodded gratefully at her.

"Thanks. Is it always like this?"

"Generally," she replied, grimacing. "Look at them. They're like cattle. Complete beasts."

They slipped through the mass of people and squeezed through the doorway. Harry took a breath of relief as they escaped into the airy hall. The air grew damper and colder as they hurried down the twisting passages. Not far behind them, they could hear the voices of the Slytherins that were following them.

"Are you a muggleborn?" Harry asked.

It was like one of those stupid twenty question games, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. Margaret turned on him furiously.

"Of course I'm not," she hissed. "Are you daft? How could you even think that?"

"I... I'm sorry," Harry spluttered. "Did I say something wrong?"

She shook her head incredulously.

"You're either stupid or ignorant, I really can't decide. Muggleborns are a disgrace. My father says they shouldn't even be allowed at Hogwarts."

Harry stared at her in bewilderment.

"Why on earth would he think that?" he exclaimed. "I met a girl on the Express who is a muggle-born and she's awfully nice. What do you think is wrong with them?"

Confused, she halted.

"I don't know. They're just... they're just... like Muggles."

"What's wrong with Muggles?"

"They aren't magical! They're regular, useless, stupid humans."

"No, they're not!"

Margaret scoffed.

"Why are you defending them? Have they treated you well?"

That shut him up. Her face softened.

"Never mind, I don't want to quarrel."

When they reached a dead end, she knocked on the stone wall. A ghostly voice answered.

"Password?"

She tapped her foot impatiently.

"Obsidian Triumph."

A hidden stone door scraped open, revealed a rather dimly lit common room. Margaret threw herself on one of the couches with a sigh of content.

"I must say, I'm terribly glad to be back. It's so peaceful here."

Harry sat down awkwardly on the edge of an armchair. He felt the heat from the fireplace flaring against his exposed skin. His tense muscles relaxed, and soon he was nestled deep into the cushions. He jolted upright again as a thought struck him. Margaret seemed annoyed at the disturbance.

"Now what? You're so jumpy, Potter. It's unsettling."

"I've just remembered. What about my trunk?"

"Oh." She yawned unconcernedly. "They bring it up for you. It's already in your room."

"Who bring it up?"

"The house elves, of course."

"What are house elves?"

She groaned. "You don't know what a house elf is either? What's wrong with you? Did you grow up with Muggles?"

"Um… yes?"

She sat up quickly.

"What? I wasn't serious..." she trailed off when she realized that he had been. "Oh, mercy. House elves are servants... unpaid servants. But they love to serve. That's their life. It makes them dreadfully uncomfortable to be free. Here, I'll call one up."

She opened her mouth but Harry stopped her.

"You needn't bother them."

"Oh, they don't care. Wheezy!"

There was a loud crack. A strange little figure stood before them. Something - a dishcloth - was wrapped around its waist. It stood about three feet tall and had little, slender, stick-like fingers. It bowed low, its long nose nearly touching the ground.

"Wheezy is here, Miss! What would Miss like?"

"Nothing," Margaret said breezily. "Harry Potter wants to see you."

The little creature turned its huge eyes towards Harry, who stammered.

"It's... it's okay... Wheezy. You can go back now... to... wherever it is you go."

"Wheezy will, Master Harry!" it squeaked. "Call Wheezy if Master wants anything."

With another loud crack, it disappeared. Harry collapsed back against the chair cushions.

"That was really weird."

"You're sure you've never seen one?" Margaret asked disbelievingly.

Harry nodded. Just at that moment, there was a loud thumping outside the door. Margaret jumped up.

"Everyone's coming in. We'd better go to the dorms now. The boys' is that way. See you in the morning, Potter."

She disappeared before he could answer. The hubbub outside was increasing in volume; the prefects were probably having trouble reaching the door. Harry opened the door that Margaret had pointed out and escaped just as the door burst open and the rest of his Housemates streamed inside.

* * *

Slytherin was not the most demonstrative of the Houses. Harry was barely acknowledged by any of them the next morning (unless a Malfoy sneer counted as an acknowledgement) as he hurried towards the Hall for breakfast.

Margaret had offered to take him to his first class, seeing how he was completely lost in the huge castle. He discovered quickly that it took a great deal of coordination to reach one side of Hogwarts from the other. The moving staircases were particularly confusing; he nearly trapped himself on the trick step before Margaret darted back and pulled him out. When he finally reached the door of the Transfiguration classroom, he was gasping for breath. Margaret merely eyed him with a hint of amusement in her blue eyes.

"See you at luncheon, Potter," she called over her shoulders.

He watched her go blearily before pushing the heavy oaken door open. He was nearly late, but managed to slip into a seat before Professor McGonagall swept inside.

Defense Against the Dark Arts was taught by a young man who he recognized from the last night's feast. Professor Quirrell was nervous and did not seem to know much about the Dark Arts at all; in fact, they seemed to frighten him.

Charms was taught by the tiny Professor Filius Flitwick - Harry found out later that he was part goblin - who was head of the Ravenclaw house. Unlike Quirrell, he knew his material very well and how to teach it. Harry rather liked that class.

Potions was taught by Professor Severus Snape. The Slytherin first years shared the class with the Gryffindor, and Harry was able to spot Ron and Hermione sitting in one corner with Neville Longbottom. Hermione waved at him cheerfully and mouthed, "How are you?" Harry mouthed back that he was fine. Ron grinned at him.

Potions could certainly be labeled as the most eventful class of the day. Snape watched with baleful eyes as the rest of the class very quietly seated itself and took out the Potions textbooks. His eyes seemed to be constantly drawn towards Harry, who squirmed uncomfortably under the dark gaze.

During the role call, Snape paused at Harry's name.

"Ah, yes. Harry Potter. Our new... celebrity."

His voice was silky. For some reason, it sent a shiver down Harry's spine, but he knew distinctly that he was not afraid of the man. It was more the tone; it seemed almost familiar, in a terrible way. He swallowed, trying to dispel the feeling of unease.

"So… you are in Slytherin. I'm sure your father would be proud."

His tone implied the opposite. He glared at Harry one last time before continuing with his speech. It was anything but welcoming.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making."

He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word. Similar to Professor McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort.

"As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death... if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

There was complete silence. Not one of them dared to so much as breathe. Snape's black eyes swept over the room expressionlessly. Finally, they landed again on Harry.

"Potter. What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

In the far corner of his eye, Harry could see Hermione's hand shoot up. He licked his dry lips.

"I don't know, sir."

Snape gazed at him unblinkingly for a moment, and then he sneered.

"Fame clearly isn't everything."

His tone was scathing.

"Shall we try again? Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

Although he felt angry at being thus singled out, Harry forced himself to keep his voice calm.

"It is a stony concretion that forms in the stomachs of some animals. It was once used as an antidote against many illnesses."

He almost clapped his hands over his mouth. It was with more shock than fear that he looked up to meet Snape's eyes. The black eyebrows rose ever so slightly, but other than that the man showed no reaction.

"It was not 'once used'," Snape corrected him finally, rather coldly. "It is a remedy is still used against poison and venom among... other things."

His purposefully vague words lingered in the air. He abandoned his attack on Harry and turned to the chalkboard that hung at the front of the classroom.

"We're doing an exercise so that I can judge how many of you are fit to be taught," he said curtly. "Let us see how well you can follow the instructions on the board."

No one moved.

"Teams of two," Snape barked.

Everyone began to scramble to find a partner. Harry simply stood in the middle of the chaos, rather forlornly. He realized that he was looking for Margaret, but she was two years ahead and in a different class.

Someone tapped his shoulder. He spun around, his hands flying up protectively.

"Whoa, mate," Ron said, jokingly raising his hands. "No need to be so jumpy."

Harry's brow furrowed. Hadn't that been what Margaret had called him the night before?

"I'm not jumpy," he said defensively, lowering his hands. "You just surprised me."

Ron shrugged. "Whatever. You're acting like you have post-traumatic stress disorder. No need to be so prickly."

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Post-traumatic stress disorder?"

Ron looked abashed.

"All right, so what? I saw it yesterday in one of those huge books that Hermione brought. Hurry up, Snape'll eat us alive if we don't sit down."

When the chattering had died down, Snape gave the class a sharp once-over. His lip curled when he saw Harry with Ron and Hermione, but surprisingly he made no comment about the seating arrangements.

"I think he hates me," Harry said reflectively as they began to stumble through the initial steps.

"I don't know why," Ron said. "You haven't done anything at all. Maybe he's just jeal... Aargh!"

Snape had stopped right beside their table. To cover Ron's slip-up, Harry quickly reached for the next ingredient. The arm of his robe caught on a jar of dragon egg-shell, sending it crashing to the floor. Glass pieces shattered everywhere. Ron had frozen, his arm poised over the table, halfway to the cauldron.

It was utterly silent. Snape simply stared at them. Ron's face paled and Harry could feel his doing the same.

"Clumsy fools," Snape hissed finally. Ron's eyes widened. His ginger hair stood out against the stark pallor of his face. "Pick up the pieces. Ten points from Gryffindor for clumsiness!"

"But I..."

"Silence!" Snape snarled. "Five more for talking back."

Ron resentfully but wisely shut his mouth and bent over to pick up the pieces. Harry joined him. Snape's footsteps faded away and the room began to come to life again. Only then did they draw a deep breath.

"I'm sorry, Ron," Harry whispered, picking up a particularly large piece of shell. "He should have taken the points from me. He saw me do it."

"It's okay," Ron sighed. He shook some shards from his robe. "He's trying to get back at you without taking points from his own house. Just be careful next time."

But he still looked rather bitter, and did not speak much for the rest of the lesson. Harry stewed with mixed feelings of guilt and indignation. He angrily shouldered his bags and pushed his way out the door the moment class ended. In his irritation, he failed to watch where he was going and bumped heavily against someone.

"What ho, Harry."

He blinked up at the speaker from his place on the floor. Margaret grinned down at him.

"What causes the death glare?"

He took the hand she offered and pulled himself up, dusting off his school robes.

"Snape."

She pursed her lips.

"What's the matter with our dear Head of House?"

"He hates me."

Margaret laughed.

"Don't be silly."

"He does," Harry insisted. "I just don't know why."

Margaret rolled her eyes.

"If you say so," she said. "Let's go to lunch."

The Great Hall was crowded when they entered it. Harry was able to find a spot at the Slytherin that just fit two people, if they squeezed. As they were eating, Harry's shoulder was jolted roughly and his glass of strawberry cordial was nearly knocked from his hand. Neville Longbottom sat down uninvited between him and Margaret. He grinned toothily at them.

"Hey!"

"Um... hello, Neville."

While Harry didn't know Neville very well, the Gryffindor first year had appeared abnormally timid and unassuming in Potions. A massive change had been wrought in him over the last hour. Neville gazed sharply into Harry's eyes for several seconds. After breaking eye contact, he began to laugh loudly.

"This... this..." he choked with laughter, unable to continue speaking for several moments. "This is hilarious! So it really is true? You're just Harry Potter!"

Harry frowned.

"I've always been Harry Potter. I don't know what you're talking about."

Neville shook his head wordlessly, his cackling gradually subsiding to short chuckles. Mystified and unnerved, Harry tried to scoot away. Most of the chatter around them had stopped as the Slytherins noticed the commotion. On the other side of Neville, Margaret scowled darkly.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she asked, disgusted.

"Right back at you, sister."

"Get lost, _Gryffindor_ ," she sneered. "This isn't your table."

They locked eyes challengingly. Finally Neville rolled his eyes and swung his legs out.

"So long, Potter," he called out as he walked away. A slow rumble of laughter followed his words.

"Ignore him," Margaret said, an undercurrent of anger in her tone. "He isn't worth it."

Harry shied away from her friendly pat. Slightly hurt, she withdrew.

"I could have taken care of him," said Harry, sullenly. "You didn't need to do that."

"Don't friends stand up for each other?"

Her words made him vaguely uneasy. He shrugged the feeling off.

"I suppose so."

* * *

 **Reviews would be great!**


	2. Chapter 2

**There still isn't much Supernatural, but you might start seeing the connection now. I promise there'll be more soon. This chapter is a bit shorter than the last one as I've been busy finishing up all my schoolwork. I'll probably continue with chapters this length.**

 **Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me except for parts of the story line and my little twists. Things you recognize are probably from the books or TV show.**

* * *

BOOK ONE

Chapter II

* * *

"Harry!"

Gesturing wildly, Hermione pushed through the crowd of students to reach him. Harry stopped, waving on his group of first-year Slytherins. He pulled his heavy stack of books higher on his chest.

Panting, Hermione clutched his arm. She was closely followed by Ron and Neville. Harry almost wanted to bow out – he had shied away from Neville ever since the incident in the hall – but he didn't want to make Ron or Hermione feel bad. He sighed, just a little, and listened to what she was saying.

"We're going to visit Hagrid today. You should come, Harry. It'll be fun. Besides, we haven't seen you at all except during class."

"I've got a lot of homework," he said hesitantly. He wasn't quite sure if it was that that was preventing him or the dubious stares he would later receive from his classmates. "Snape gave me two extra feet on the Potions scroll. I'm still trying to figure out what for."

"Oh, in that case..."

"Oh, come on, Harry. Ditch it for today," Ron cut in, blind to Hermione's death glare.

"Ron! Don't talk about his work so flippantly. It's all right, Harry, we won't bother you."

"It won't be due for another week, Hermione," Neville said quietly over her shoulder.

She pursed her lips in disapproval.

"It's... it's okay, everyone," Harry said uncomfortably. If he continued at this rate, he would soon be known as the number one friendship-breaker in Hogwarts. "I really think I need to go anyway. I'll come another time. Day after tomorrow sound all right?"

Ron looked disappointed, but Hermione nodded her head vigorously.

"Harry, that would be great. I'm proud of you. Unlike _some_ people, you actually have a sense of responsibility. Let's go, Ron, Neville."

She grabbed their sleeves and dragged them down the hallway, evidently afraid that they would persuade Harry to change his mind. He watched them go with half a mind to follow them.

On his way back to the dorms, he tripped over something invisible. He landed hard and threw out his hands to catch himself. Mocking laughter echoed through the hall as he sat up and dusted himself off. One of his fallen books skimmed the ground, spinning to a stop near his feet. He looked up to see Draco Malfoy grinning at him, wand out and at the ready.

"Took a tumble, eh, Potter?"

Harry ignored him and stooped to pick up the book. He jumped back as a sizzle of light flew past his elbow. Malfoy smiled contemptuously.

"You seem to have a problem with your balance today."

"What do you want?" Harry asked irritably, snatching the book quickly before Malfoy could make another move. "I don't want to fight."

"That is a problem, as you seem intent on provoking one. People notice that you're talking to Gryffindors and they don't appreciate it. Don't you have a shred of House pride?"

Anger swelled in Harry's chest. He clenched his jaw.

"Of course I do."

"It's certainly difficult to see. So far I've seen nothing but affection towards our rivals."

"That doesn't mean I have no loyalty to Slytherin. I'm just not as petty and small-minded as you are."

His words came out slightly louder than he intended.

"What's happening down there?"

Filch's heavy footsteps neared them and Malfoy backed down quickly. Before he left, however, he scowled at Harry.

"This isn't over, you know."

After Malfoy had disappeared into the Slytherin dormitory, Harry headed back up the stairs to the library. If what Malfoy had said was true, he wouldn't be very welcome with the Slytherins at the moment.

He was still working on his scroll when Hermione flew in.

"Harry!" she greeted him. "Hagrid told us some really strange news."

He put down his quill quickly.

"What's that?"

"There's been a break-in at Gringott's," she explained, lowering her voice when Madam Pince gave her a dirty look.

"What? How could that have happened? What was stolen?"

"I don't know how it happened," she whispered, "but they didn't steal anything. Harry, it happened the day after you went there with Hagrid. Did you notice anything?"

He frowned.

"Hagrid took a package out of a vault. It was all wrapped up and he couldn't tell me what it was. But it was very small."

"Oh, size doesn't matter," she said impatiently. "Some tiny things hold more magic than... than Godric Gryffindor's sword, for example. It must have been important, though, or else they wouldn't have tried to steal it. If that was the target, at any rate. How are you doing on your scroll?"

She turned it around to examine it while Harry looked on anxiously. Her eyes flicked over the page and came to a startled halt at the end of his three paragraphs.

"Harry, you've barely done anything at all," she exclaimed. "And some of the information's wrong here, too. See, it's supposed to be the gungus berry, not the silverhael leaf. I'll tell you what, you bring it to me tomorrow and I'll correct it for you... if you want me to, I mean." She suddenly looked nervous. "I'm not bothering you, or anything?"

"No, of course not!" Harry said, surprised. "Thanks for your help, I needed it. Why would you think you were bothering me?"

"Because Ron said..." she stopped. "Never mind. Don't forget to finish it tonight. Oh, and Ron wanted me to tell you that the first flying lesson is coming up and you'd better not miss it." She rolled her eyes. "Boys and sports, ridiculous really. I've got to go now. Professor McGonagall is giving me a tutoring lesson so I can learn that little flick of the wrist properly. You know, for _Wingardium Leviosa_. Goodbye, Harry."

"Bye, Hermione. Thanks."

She smiled tentatively at him.

"You're welcome."

* * *

Harry had discovered that generally the Slytherin and Gryffindors were paired for classes. He wasn't sure if the pros outweighed the cons of the arrangement. On one hand, he saw Ron and Hermione a lot more than he would have otherwise (that meant he saw Neville often as well, but so far they hadn't had another confrontation). But he was starting to realize the truth of Margaret's words. It wasn't just Draco. Most of the Slytherin first years looked at him with disgust as they noticed more and more how much time he spent talking to Ron. Hermione was even worse… practically an abomination. Apparently even a so-called blood traitor wasn't as offensive as a Mudblood.

He'd tried a few times to breach the topic with his friends, but it was so awkward that he never quite got the words out. Consequently, he would beat around the bush for several long minutes and then come to an irrelevant finish and an abrupt escape. He knew Ron wouldn't react well. He wasn't so sure about Hermione, but he also wasn't willing to risk either of his friendships.

Their first flying lesson came a few weeks later than planned because Madam Hooch, the Quidditch coach, had been absent on leave for the first bit of the school year (rumor had it that her mother was in St. Mungo's, but rumor was capricious). Ron had been in a state of fevered anxiety as he had been hoping to join the Quidditch team next year. He had almost worked Harry up to the same degree of excitement as himself, talking about all the fun he had had flying with his older brothers (Ginny was rather good as well, by the sound of it).

Due to his lack of prior experience, Harry was a bundle of nerves as he walked out into the cobblestone courtyard. Several dozen broomsticks lay out on the ground, ready for use. Madam Hooch wasn't there yet. His nervousness ebbing away in the absence of any prying eyes, he was reaching out to touch the stiff bristles gently when a loud _tsk_ made him start. He turned, his hand jumping back to his side.

The Quidditch coach frowned at him.

"I'm sorry, Professor. I was just..."

"Madam Hooch, please. What's your name?" she interrupted, clearly not in the mood for excuses.

"Harry Potter, Prof... Madam Hooch."

Her eyebrows rose and she looked him over as though surprised that his outfit was green.

"James Potter's son?"

It was the first time someone had recognized him as his father's son rather than Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. A warm burst of pride spread through his chest.

"Yes, Madam."

"I remember your father," she said reflectively. "He was very good at Quidditch. One of the best Chasers I've seen."

"Really?"

The Dursleys had never told him the slightest thing about his father. Harry felt the deprivation acutely. When he had been very small, Aunt Petunia gave him a picture of his mother and told him a brief story about their childhood together. It was one of the rare and later nonexistent moments of bonding between himself and his aunt, and he treasured the moment dearly now. But when he, the small five-year-old child that he had been, asked excitedly about James Potter, his aunt sent him to bed without supper. He had never asked again.

"I trained him myself," the Quidditch instructor informed him.

Before she could tell him any more, the rest of the class began to arrive.

"What were you doing out here so early?" Ron asked him curiously.

"I was talking with her," Harry explained, nodding towards their instructor. "She taught my dad. She said he was a really good Chaser."

His face glowed with some of his remaining pride and excitement. Ron eyed him with an odd expression.

"That's all?"

"Why, what did you think?"

"Oh, nothing," Ron said hastily.

"All right, students!" Madam Hooch barked, pulling them out of their huddle.

Hermione gave the brooms an apprehensive glance, having told both of the boys earlier that she was afraid of heights. Ron had scoffed loudly, to which Hermione had retorted in anger. They were acting coolly around each other now.

"We'll be learning the basics of flying today. I'm sure some of you know them already, but for many of you this will be an entirely new and understandably frightening experience."

To this, Hermione sniffed, very loudly and very pointedly. Ron flushed.

"I swear," he whispered to Harry from one side, "if that girl..."

"Excuse me, Harry," said Hermione, staring stoically straight forward. "Madam Hooch is giving instructions, but for some reason I can't hear them. There's too much background noise."

Ron glared at her back, but she merely crossed her arms and proceeded to ignore them both.

"Everyone stand next to a broom. Don't pick it up!" Madam Hooch called. Neville snatched his hand back hurriedly. "To summon the broomstick to your hand, you must say 'Up!' clearly and firmly."

She demonstrated. Hers jumped to her palm immediately.

"Hold your hands over your broom. Now, on the count of three," she used the broomstick as a pointer, "One... two... _three_."

A chorus of "Up's" echoed through the courtyard. The result was pitiful. Harry's wobbled, but it did not lift itself from the ground. He looked around to see if anyone else had succeeded.

One of the bristles on Ron's had quivered a little (at least, that was what Ron insisted, but Harry thought it more likely to have been the wind). Draco Malfoy's had given a feeble hop. No one else's had moved in the slightest.

Madam Hooch looked disappointed but not very surprised.

"Try it again, this time with more force. You can't expect it to obey if you haven't the will."

A second, staggered chorus of "Up's" followed her words. Harry stared at his broom long and determinedly.

 _I'm going to do this. Dad would have been able to do it._

He crossed his left fingers and flexed his right hand.

"Up!"

To his astonishment, the broomstick jumped up and hit his hand with a smack. He had so little expected it that he almost fell over. Harry grinned as Ron looked at him enviously.

"How did you manage that?"

Harry shook his head.

"I honestly don't know."

They looked up to see Madam Hooch approaching them. She saw the broomstick in Harry's hand and nodded brusquely.

"Good job, Mr. Potter. More force, everyone!"

She made them practice until everyone had summoned the broomstick at least once. She looked very tired and hassled by the end of it, her short grey hair flying wildly in all directions.

"All right," she said loudly, clapping her hands. "Now we come to the next step: the real flying. Mount your broomsticks."

Harry gingerly did so. A shout from Madam Hooch made him look up.

"Mr. Longbottom! Did I tell you to push off?"

Neville was spinning out of control, higher and higher. He caught everyone's attention now. One of the Gryffindor girls gave a squeak of fright. Suddenly, the broomstick seemed to slip through his fingers and Harry watched in horror as Neville fell twenty feet to the ground, landing heavily on his wrist. It crumpled beneath him as he fell in a faint on the ground.

Madam Hooch was by his side in an instant.

"I need to take him to the infirmary immediately. A fall from that height..."

Neville looked up blearily for a moment.

"What... What's happening?" he slurred.

Madam Hooch's face tightened.

"You fell, Mr. Longbottom. Lie down. You could be badly hurt."

She took out her wand and muttered a spell. Neville's body lifted and she transported him inside.

"Not one of you touch your brooms!" she called over her shoulder threateningly. "Wait for me to come back."

They stood awkwardly in bunches. Those who still held their brooms dropped them nervously once they remembered.

"I hope Neville is all right," Hermione worried.

Harry grimaced.

"Me too. That was a long drop."

They turned upon hearing the commotion a little way from them. Malfoy burst through the crowd that had gathered around him. He was grinning and holding a small ball. Harry didn't know what it was, but it provoked a rather strong reaction from Hermione. Her eyes widened.

"Why, the scum!" she breathed. "That's Neville's Remembrall! He's always so forgetful... oh, that git will be _so_ sorry for this."

Before he could stop her, she was stomping over to the blond haired wizard, who was laughing and tossing it up and down in front of his friends. Malfoy was completely unprepared for Hermione's wrath. She snatched it from his hands in one quick, fluid motion, kicked his shins viciously, and watched in triumph as he folded over, clutching his leg.

"That'll teach you!" she hissed. "How dare you touch Neville's things... especially when he's just been hurt!"

Tossing her head, she spun on her heel and stalked back, clutching the Remembrall tightly. Draco was left wincing and gaping after her.

"What the bloody..." Ron choked as Hermione joined them. "Hermione... wow... I... that was..."

"Don't mention it," said Hermione. But she looked rather astonished and pleased with herself.

"Can I see that?" Harry asked curiously, holding out his hand.

It was round and clear. He turned it over in his palm, trying to understand its purpose.

"It smokes red when he's forgotten something. Of course," Hermione added, frowning, "it doesn't tell him what he forgot, but it's still useful."

He handed it back to her and she pocketed it carefully. A few minutes later, Madam Hooch came hurrying out. She clapped her hands to get everyone's attention.

"All right! This lesson is over. I expect you all back here next week."

Harry stopped her as she passed.

"How is Neville?" For some reason, he felt guilty… maybe because of the numerous times he had gone out of his way to avoid him.

"He's a very lucky boy," she replied shortly. "He survived the fall with only a twisted wrist. He won't even need to spend the night in the infirmary."

Relief flooded over him.

"Oh. That's good."

She gazed at him sharply.

"Indeed it is, Mr. Potter. Indeed it is."

* * *

As it turned out, Neville was better by dinnertime. He did look a little pale and rumpled, and he ate with his left hand, but otherwise he looked perfectly fine. Harry found himself glancing at the Gryffindor table several times just to make sure. As his eyes flicked back again, they caught Snape's.

"Ow!"

Harry buckled over, clutching his forehead. His head pounded painfully. _What on earth?_

"Are you all right, Harry?"

Someone was pulling him upright. He clutched their sleeve. The pain lessened gradually.

"Harry, snap out of it. Come on, buck up."

He looked up into a pair of clear blue eyes.

"Margaret?"

The eyes rolled tolerantly.

"Who did you think it was? I've been sitting right next to you this whole time, you blundering idiot."

"I had a terrible headache," said Harry. Suddenly he frowned, troubled. "I think it was Snape. He looked at me and then my scar started to throb."

"Don't be silly," said Margaret condescendingly. "He _looked_ at you?"

"Maybe it wasn't just a look. He could have cursed me," he replied, disliking her tone.

"Give me one reason why Snape would want to curse you and maybe I'll consider him as the culprit. You probably just got a particularly violent migraine."

"I think I know the difference," Harry said coolly.

She ruffled his hair playfully.

"Don't play the 'cool and aloof' card. That's my job."

He scowled and flattened his tousled mop of hair.

"Stop. I hate when you do that."

She winked. "Guess why I do."

He huffed and returned to eating. His scar was still prickling and he wasn't sure if it was the aftereffect or simply anxiety. Snape did not look his way again, but he tried to finish as quickly as he could. Before he left the dining hall, however, he felt compelled to check on Neville.

"Neville," he said, coming up behind him quietly. The chatter from the tables muffled his voice. He tapped Neville's shoulder.

Neville jumped and turned around, his elbow knocking something off the table. The metal container hit his hurt wrist and sprinkled its contents all over his lap. He hissed in pain. Before he ducked his head, Harry could have sworn that his eyes flickered weirdly. But when he looked up again, his eyes were brown and brimming with pain.

"What is it?" he grunted, still clutching his wrist.

"I just..." Harry paused. "Just wanted to see how you were. You know, after your fall today."

"Oh."

Neither spoke for a moment.

"Well, I'm fine, thanks," Neville said finally.

Harry pursed his lips and nodded.

"Okay. That's good." He nodded again. "I guess I'll be seeing you later, then."

He walked hurriedly to the doors, feeling Neville's eyes on him every step of the way. When he was outside, he exhaled in relief. Too soon, it seemed. Draco Malfoy was directly in front of him, together with his everlastingly present friends (Harry had finally figured out that their names were Crabbe and Goyle). He raised a slim, pale eyebrow when he saw Harry, and crossed his arms in such a way that his wand was clearly visible.

"Potter," he drawled. "You never learn, do you? I told you before and you didn't listen. Must you fraternize with the enemy?"

Harry held up his hands placatingly.

"Look, I don't want to fight..."

"I noticed that," Draco sneered. "I'm starting to think that maybe you're a coward."

Harry could feel his temper flaring.

"You're wrong."

"Oh?" He raised that hateful eyebrow again. Harry's fingers itched to curse him. "Then..."

The doors to the Hall opened. McGonagall came out and spotted them. Frowning, she began to approach them. At this point, Harry was so angry that he wished she hadn't come in time to break them up. He needn't have worried.

"Tonight, third floor," Malfoy hissed, leaning closer. "If you're not there..."

He trailed off, but left his meaning clear. Harry gritted his teeth.

"I'll be there."

Then Malfoy was smiling and telling McGonagall, yes, they were just talking, yes, they had both finished their meals, and no, they were getting along perfectly well. She didn't seem to believe him, but when Harry did not object she frowned and returned to the hall.

* * *

Harry waited in anxious anticipation for nightfall. When it was past curfew, he nervously pushed his glasses up more securely on his nose and crept out into the hall, gripping his wand tightly. He had not heard Malfoy leave the dorms, nor Crabbe, nor Goyle. He didn't think to be suspicious until he had reached the third floor and waited several minutes.

"There's a student here, Mrs. Norris. Sniff him out, old girl."

Harry froze. Filch. He shrank back into one of the shadowy alcoves and prayed that he would be passed by.

The long shadows of Filch and Mrs. Norris crept around the corner. He hardly dared to breathe. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. They were passing him by. Four seconds. Five seconds. He was about to take a deep breath of relief when Peeves appeared behind him. Internally, he groaned and knew the game was up even before Peeves opened his mouth.

"Peeves, please be quiet," he whispered frantically. "This is important... just... just be quiet, all right?"

The poltergeist looked at him uncomprehendingly for a moment. Then he grinned and bounced out into the corridor.

"Oh, Fiiiiiilchiiiieeeee!" he sang out. Harry bolted. "Student's here, here, here! Come and get him!"

Without thinking, Harry threw himself at the first door he could find. It was locked. He shook it frantically and wracked his brain thinking of spells. Hermione... Hermione... what had she told him? Unlocking doors... Aloho... Aloho... They were getting closer...

" _Alohomora_!"

The lock clicked open and he sprang inside, closing and locking the door after him. A few moments later, he heard Filch's footsteps passing with Mrs. Norris no doubt in tow. He waited for several minutes with baited breath just to be sure, and he had time to think the whole situation over.

It had been a trick. Malfoy wasn't brave enough to attempt to leave the dorms after curfew, at least, not without good enough reason. He had wanted Harry to get caught and blamed, and so to exact his revenge. Harry stewed in anger and shame.

Slowly, he began to realize that he was not alone in the room. There was snuffly breathing behind him. It sounded... like... he turned around. A three-headed dog. It was sleeping, curled up on the ground and snoring softly. It was huge. He backed away and ended up flush against the door.

Groping for the doorknob, he twisted it and promptly fell flat on his back in the hallway, panting. The monster shifted restlessly. He didn't wait for it to wake up.

He was not surprised when he stepped into the common room and came face to face with a smug Malfoy. He didn't even stop his forward motion; he propelled himself forward and swung his fist. It collided with Malfoy's face with a dull, satisfying thud.

Looking shocked, Malfoy stumbled back a few steps, clutching his jaw. When he had somewhat recovered, his face darkened and he lunged at Harry, who met him halfway. They tumbled to the ground in a scuffle of fists and flailing arms.

For someone who acted so cowardly, Malfoy could be a good fighter, but he was no match for Harry's superior skill (he had had too much practice fighting off Dudley and Co.). Eventually, Harry found himself on the top, pummeling the insufferable boy's face.

After struggling for a while, Malfoy was able to shove him off. He rolled a little way and they turned quickly to meet each other again. He met Malfoy's glare with a scowl of his own. Despite himself, Malfoy looked almost impressed, but the sentiment was replaced quickly by a angry sniff. He straightened his robes and sneered, the expression absurdly out of place on his swollen face.

"You're remarkably gullible, Potter. I thought you'd surely realize it was all a hoax."

Harry held back a retort with difficulty, feeling drained now that the adrenaline had gone.

"I'm going to bed, Malfoy," he said tiredly. "I hope you sleep comfortably."

The next morning, Malfoy's face was unblemished. However, Harry saw him touch it and wince. He had probably used some type of concealment spell on it.

He discussed the last night's events with Ron and Hermione after breakfast. Hermione looked very anxious.

"That was horrible of him!" she said vehemently. "He actually tried to get you caught?"

"I'm glad you pounded him," said Ron, with a happy sigh. "When is it going to be my turn? Both of you have already had a go at the git."

"I'm sure there'll be plenty more chances," Hermione sniffed. "Boys like that never change. But, Harry, you were saying there was a three-headed dog?"

"Yeah. It was in a room on the third floor."

She started.

"You went to the _third floor_?"

"Um... yes? Why?"

Hermione looked scandalized.

"Were you even listening on the first day? Dumbledore told us _specifically_ not to go to the third floor! Must you always be so idiotic?"

He only really heard the part about Dumbledore.

"Dumbledore told us not to?"

"Yes!"

"But that means he knew," said Harry slowly. "Why on earth would he let a dangerous monster stay inside?"

Hermione paused.

"Maybe it was guarding something," she suggested.

Ron wrinkled his nose.

"What would they have to guard here? Everything's so old, and it isn't as if burglars could enter undetected."

Suddenly Hermione's eyes lit up.

"The package, Harry!" she exclaimed, shaking him. "The package! If it was important enough for someone to try to steal it from Gringott's, it's important enough to merit a three-headed dog as protection."

"Hold on," Ron interrupted. "What package are you talking about?"

Harry remembered guiltily that they hadn't told Ron anything about the matter.

"Sorry," he said. "Remember the Gringott's break-in that Hagrid told you both about? I went earlier the day it was broken into and Hagrid took out this little paper package. Other than that little thing the whole vault was empty. Hermione thinks it might have been something really valuable."

Ron gave a long whistle.

"It probably was. Why? Don't you think so?"

"I don't know," Harry sighed. "Maybe they're just coincidences and we're reading too much into them. There's no use acting until we have more information."

Hermione set her jaw.

"All right. Let's get some then."

* * *

 **Reviews – especially constructive criticism – are always very much appreciated! Thank you!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Many thanks to all my reviewers! You keep me going, guys. Please inform me of any mistakes, whether typos, spelling, or grammar. What can I say? I'm a perfectionist.**

 **Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me except for parts of the story line and my little twists. Things you recognize are probably from the books or TV show.**

* * *

BOOK ONE

Chapter III

* * *

Halloween was a grand affair at Hogwarts. There was a huge feast in the Great Hall with orange and black streamers, and cat and pumpkin shaped sugar cookies with bright frosting on them. Hagrid wore a pointed purple hat that looked tiny and ridiculous perched on his hairy head, but no one had the heart to tell him to take it off. There were no classes, either (that clearly was not Professor McGonagall's idea – she stalked through the rows of unruly students with a foreboding expression on her stern features).

The feast started in the middle of the afternoon and continued on into late night. For once, Harry was able to sneak over to the Gryffindor table, concealed by the chaos. He was sharing a chocolate lava cake, charmed to look like a real pumpkin, with Ron (Hermione disliked the heavy dessert) when the heavy doors of the hall clanged open. All conversation halted as Professor Quirrell stumbled in. His turban was lopsided and his face ashen.

"Troll in the dungeon!" he gasped. He looked around the room and added weakly, "Thought you ought to know," before falling in a dead faint on the floor.

In the midst of the bedlam that followed, Harry slipped back to the Slytherin table.

"Attention, students!" Dumbledore called. "Prefects, lead your charges back to the dormitories. Order, please!"

This caused a great deal of consternation among the Slytherin. One of the prefects wisely went to discuss it privately with Snape, who in turn spoke to Dumbledore. As a result, the Slytherins remained in the Great Hall for the rest of the night.

The rest of the Houses quickly dispersed. The Great Hall felt particularly large and cold with most of the students gone. McGonagall handed out blankets and pillows, and she and Snape checked the wards before disappearing to search for the troll.

There was a great deal of rustling and whispering and shoving as everyone tried both to find the most comfortable position and to hide his nervousness. Harry was elbowed several times (a few of which he was sure were not necessary) before the commotion settled down. Although the blankets were warm and soft, he couldn't fall asleep for a long time, and he was sure most of the others had similar problems.

To his surprise, it seemed moments later that sunlight was streaming through the windows of the Great Hall. He sat up on the hard ground, rubbing his eyes and wincing. Around him, his housemates were gradually waking up, groaning at the bright sunlight. He stood, his blanket trailing behind him, and stepped over dozens of bodies to reach the doors. The stone floor was cold to his bare feet.

With difficulty, he managed to pull one of the doors open, and he stepped out into the corridor. It was quiet and empty.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and Snape glared down at him.

"Professor Snape!" exclaimed Harry, taking a deep breath to slow his racing heart. He couldn't get the image of a gigantic troll crushing him with a single blow out of his head. "I was just checking... I was wondering if... the troll..."

Snape looked down his long nose coldly.

"It has been dealt with."

He spun on his heel, his black robes billowing out behind him menacingly. He seemed to limp very slightly as he swirled through the door. Harry's scar throbbed again, but less violently this time.

 _Maybe it has something to do with the degree of his annoyance_ , he thought, half curious but rather worried.

Voices from down the hall started him out of his reverie.

"I'm t... telling you," said Quirrell's voice in a high waver, "its death was unnatural. I don't know how it c... could have happened. It l... looked like s... something smashed its h... head against the wall."

"Now then, Professor," replied Dumbledore's deeper, steadier voice kindly, "there's no need to..."

Harry quickly slipped back into the Great Hall as they rounded the corner. Snape was roughly waking the unfortunate students who had not risen yet. None too eager to confront the man again, Harry hurriedly pulled on his shoes and socks before heading towards the Owlery. He had rather neglected Hedwig over the past weeks.

The Owlery was drafty and cold. He wrapped his clothes tighter around himself as wind whistled through the open windows. The ground was covered with scratchy straw, feathers, and excrement. He picked his way through the rubbish to Hedwig's perch. She hooted softly as he neared her. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the carcass of the small rodent that lay near her.

"Come on, Hedwig."

She crawled amenably onto his arm, evidently expecting him to send her off with a letter. Instead, he strode to the cleanest corner he could find and sat down with a sigh, placing her beside him. She began to nudge his robe softly. He felt in his pockets.

"I'm sorry," he said regretfully, holding out empty hands. "I don't have anything for you right now. I'll bring something up later, I promise."

She looked resigned and ruffled her feathers before settling down closer to him. He stroked her snow-white head.

"You know," he said reflectively. "Some strange things have been happening. The three-headed dog, for one, and the package. But then there's Snape."

He shifted and Hedwig gave an annoyed chitter as she lost her balance.

"I don't get it. It's happened twice already. It's like my scar knows when he's looking at me and then it hurts. Or he's cursing me. Or something."

He frowned.

"Ron and Hermione'd probably think I was crazy. That's a whole other problem in itself. It's just... well, I don't know what to do, you know? I don't understand why there's so much hate between Slytherin and Gryffindor. I mean, there's no real reason, right? It's like some twisted version of Romeo and Juliet, minus the love story."

She continued to stare at him knowingly. He sighed.

"I'd better go. Classes are going to start soon. I'll come back at lunch hour."

He picked her up with some difficulty (she was a rather large bird, after all) and carried her back to her perch. She fluttered from his arms, her talons digging into the fabric of his robes, and landed gracefully. He stroked her head one more time.

"Goodbye, Hedwig."

On his way down from the Owlery, he found Ron and Hermione talking in a corner. Ron looked hassled as Hermione was apparently trying to discuss something. His eyes lit up when he noticed Harry.

"Harry! C'mere. Hermione is worried about Neville again."

Come to think of it, Neville had been rather unlucky so far. He wondered what could have further happened to the hapless boy.

"What is it?" he asked, joining them.

"Neville was in the bathroom when the troll came and he didn't hear the warning," Hermione told him. Her hair looked particularly frizzy due to her agitation. "He got a really nasty surprise when he came out and saw it in the hall. But the funny thing was that it was already dead... its neck was snapped. What really worries me is the thought of a thing that could have snapped a troll's neck. I mean, think about how powerful it had to have been! And it could be somewhere in Hogwarts right now!"

"It's not as if we can do anything about it," Ron said, sounding rather annoyed. He had probably been listening to her all morning. "I'm sure Dumbledore's already taken measures. Besides, we're going to be late for breakfast at this rate and I'm terribly hungry."

"All you think about is your stomach," Hermione said crossly.

Ron gave her a dirty look.

"Okay, okay," Harry interjected hastily, realizing that they were on the brink of another fight. "Hermione, we've got to go to the Great Hall because classes start in half an hour. Tell you what, we can visit Hagrid and talk it over with him later. I haven't seen him in a while. Maybe we'll learn something about the three-headed dog, too."

"Sounds good," agreed Ron quickly, before Hermione could object.

Hermione screwed up her mouth primly.

"Fine," she said. Both of the boys let out relieved breaths. "But you had better not forget!" she called after Harry's departing back.

He waved a hand in acknowledgement. He had just noticed how stale his mouth was and remembered with a start that he had not returned to the dorms after his night in the Great Hall.

* * *

Transfiguration took second period. Professor McGonagall tapped her wand against her hand impatiently as she waited for the class to seat itself, her lips pressed in a stern line. She cleared her throat and glared at the few students who were still conversing.

"So far you have not had practical experience transfiguring objects. Today we will perform one of the easiest Transfiguration spells. It transforms a match, such as this one, into a silver needle. Before we begin, I remind you never to transfigure a human being. Unlike the transfigurement process of Animagi, which leaves the Animagus' mental capabilities intact, a person transfigured in this manner takes on the physical appearance and mental awareness of the object or animal he or she becomes. Only the caster of the spell may reverse it, so let that be a warning against any attempts at self-transfiguration."

She cast a quick eye about the room.

"Mr. Malfoy, I gather from your expression that you have already covered the material of which I am speaking?"

Draco Malfoy jerked into a more alert position. McGonagall gave him a warning glance before demonstrating the match-to-needle spell with a swift, sure flick of her wand.

Hermione was able to transfigure the match almost perfectly (the tip was slightly more rounded than it should have been, but that was hardly noticeable). Unfortunately Harry's was stubborn. No matter how many times he tried, the closest he came to achieving the intended result was when one of the wooden splinters frosted over with silver. He was glad when the class ended.

Hedwig had gone when he returned to the Owlery, presumably on a hunt. He waited for a little while before heading back down. As he walked down one of the stone corridors, he heard muffled voices from one of the rooms that lined the passage. He paused in the doorway to take in the queer sight.

Filch was binding a nasty wound on Snape's leg. Snape hissed in pain as the white bindings touched the raw flesh. Harry peered closer. It looked uncommonly like a bite mark. At that moment, Snape looked up and saw him. For a split second, they stared at each other in surprise.

Then Snape's face darkened in fury. He bolted up, sending Filch stumbling backwards.

"Potter!" he snarled. "What are you doing sneaking about?"

"I'm not, sir," protested Harry. "I was at the Owlery."

He retreated quickly and dashed down the next flight of stairs, hoping that Snape wouldn't attempt to follow. Fortunately for him, the bite looked rather bad.

 _The bite._ Harry stopped in the middle of the passageway. Of course. The three-headed dog that guarded the package from Gringott's. Snape must have been attacked (that was only proof of its ferocity; he was glad it had been asleep when he had encountered it).

Snape had to have been trying to steal the package. Harry was quite sure of it. With this new evidence of the questionability of Snape's character, he no longer had any doubts. Unfortunately Dumbledore seemed to completely trust the man.

Harry ran a hand through his untidy hair in despair. What on earth was he to do? Hagrid might know something of the matter, but he could hardly be expected to blurt it out if they asked him. Perhaps if they went about it in a roundabout way, he would be unsuspecting and let out the secret, whatever it was. While they were at it, Harry could bring up his suspicions of Snape's involvement with his headaches.

* * *

"Nonsense," snorted Hagrid.

He had listened to Harry's tale with incredulity. Ron and Hermione were already informed (he had filled them in during lunch). Ron was very much inclined to believe him, but Hermione listened skeptically.

"Why would Professor Snape try to curse you?" she had asked, very logically. She always respectfully addressed Snape as "Professor," unlike Harry and occasionally Ron. "It would be rather obvious, wouldn't it? I mean, the professors obviously have a much better knowledge of dark arts than any of the students, and Snape clearly dislikes you. He wouldn't be so stupid. Besides, he's a _teacher._ "

But Harry had been determined to believe in Snape's guilt. Hermione had merely sighed after attempting to squash their suspicions.

"That's what I said," she replied snottily to Hagrid's remark. "It's perfectly ridiculous even to entertain the thought."

"You should listen to 'Ermione." Hagrid nodded in her direction. "Snape's an odd character... even as a boy, 'e was. But that's no reason to start pointing fingers at 'im."

"But that's not all," Harry said quickly, eager to reveal this new information. "I saw him today. Filch was wrapping up his hurt leg. I wonder what happened to him."

He looked sharply at the large man, who looked uncomfortable.

"'E was..." Hagrid started. Then he stopped. Harry pretended not to have heard him.

"It looked rather like a bite," he said thoughtfully. "If it was, whatever did it must have been vicious."

"Oi," Hagrid said indignantly, "Fluffy isn't..."

He stopped again but Harry jumped at him.

"Fluffy?" he asked quickly. "Who's Fluffy?"

Hagrid shifted.

"I can't tell you," he muttered.

"Tell us what?" Harry pressed.

"It's a secret," Hagrid said desperately.

But he looked about ready to crack.

"You've already told told us about it in itself," Harry said reasonably. "You trust us, don't you, Hagrid? We won't tell anyone, anyone at all. Cross our hearts."

Ron nodded enthusiastically. Hermione looked very disapproving at Harry's blatant disregard for Hagrid's discomfort, but she seemed interested in spite of herself. Hagrid caved.

"All right, all right," he mumbled. "Fluffy's me dog. A great big brute, but 'e has a soft 'eart. 'E's guarding that package that belong's to Dumbledore and 'is friend Nicholas Flamel."

"Who's Nicholas Flamel?" Harry asked, ignoring Hermione's exasperated gesticulations. But Hagrid shook his head.

"Told you too much already," he said, suddenly firm. "Now, I'll get you some tea and a bit of something to eat."

Having already tried Hagrid's rock-hard biscuits, they politely declined food but gladly accepted the hot tea. Hagrid shuffled to the fire to brew it in his large, rusty kettle. When he was out of earshot, Hermione jabbed Harry very hard in the ribs.

"I'm ashamed of you," she hissed. "Why did you push him for? You could see he didn't want to tell us."

"I needed to know," Harry whispered back, feeling just as annoyed as she sounded. "There's no one else we can ask."

"He's our _friend_ , Harry!"

But now Hagrid had returned. Hermione retreated to her seat, still giving Harry displeased glances. Harry pretended not to notice, but he felt a stab of guilt for deceiving his friend. He pushed it down. There was no point in brooding over something that couldn't be helped. He felt rather bad, though, when he saw Hagrid's kindly face and the care he took in pouring out the four little cups of tea.

"So, how are you all doing in your classes?" Hagrid beamed, oblivious to the interaction that had passed between Harry and Hermione. "Do you like what yer learning?"

"Oh, yes, Hagrid," Hermione said fervently. "I'm learning the most fascinating things. I like Charms best."

Ron gulped down his mouthful of tea.

"Hermione likes all the classes best."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. Fortunately Hagrid broke in.

"Fine, fine. I'm glad yer enjoying it. Is Slytherin treating you well, 'Arry?"

"Yes," Harry said, a little stiffly.

"You know," Hagrid remarked thoughtfully, "they say that nary did a wizard go bad who didn't come from Slytherin. But I reckon they were wrong. Merlin 'imself was Slytherin and a greater wizard there never was."

All at once, Harry felt very grateful to the big man that sat across the table from him. He swallowed.

"Thanks, Hagrid."

Hagrid's eyes twinkled for a moment, then he turned back to Hermione and began to discuss her classes.

It was dusk when they finally left Hagrid's little hut. The first few stars were just popping out in the darkening sky. Hermione shivered.

"I'm glad it'll be Christmas soon," she remarked. "It'll be nice to go back home."

Ron trod on a thick clump of grass and nearly tripped.

"It's always so terribly busy during the holidays," he grumbled, righting himself. "Mum's thinking of letting us stay here this year so she doesn't have to deal with four extra mouths to feed, along with all the visiting relatives. By the way, Harry," he looked up, "she owled me a little while ago and said she's sending you one of her knit sweaters for Christmas."

"That's awfully nice of her."

"I'll tell her you said that. She'll be very pleased. But I'd advise you not to wear it. They're terribly scratchy. Trust me, I know. I've gotten one every single year."

Harry did not reply, but silently resolved to wear it as often as possible, even if it was unbearably scratchy.

* * *

Hermione accordingly left when Christmas break rolled around. She boarded the Hogwarts Express with most of the other students and waved frantically as it puffed off. Harry and Ron stayed on the platform until she was just a small dot leaning out of the window in the distance.

Hogwarts was very quiet over the next few weeks. It started to snow more and Harry found himself frequently visiting the Gryffindor tower to lounge about with the Weasleys (practically all of the Slytherin had gone and the dungeon was terribly empty and lonely). He experienced firsthand one of the twins' jokes – he had found himself stuck underneath an enchanted mistletoe, and in order to get out he had to kiss the mistletoe itself, which was charmed to jump just out of his reach. Needless to say, it was a while before he could free himself.

When he arrived outside the Gryffindor common room early Christmas morning, Ron was at the door in a moment and dragged him in.

"I'm glad you're here, Harry. You've no idea how much trouble I've been through. This is from my mum," he shoved a soft, paper-wrapped package into Harry's surprised arms, "and this is from Hermione."

This second package was flat and thin and hard. He decided it must be a book (not very surprising considering reading was Hermione's favorite pastime). Ron hovered at his shoulder anxiously.

"Make sure you tell her I gave it to you. She's been hounding me about it for weeks."

Harry laughed. He felt a bubble of joy rise up in his chest.

"I will."

He sat down on one of the soft red couches to unwrap the packages. Ron followed him. He looked rather nervous as he shoved a parcel into Harry's single free hand.

"This is from me. It's rather small. I hope you don't mind."

It was a small box of Chocolate Frogs. Harry grinned.

"Thanks awfully, Ron. I love Chocolate Frogs."

Ron looked relieved.

"You're welcome. I hoped you would."

He whistled cheerfully as he went to unwrap his own gifts.

Harry found that the package from Mrs. Weasley was indeed a sweater – a deep, forest green one with a large _H_ embroidered on it in silver thread. It was a little scratchy, but he was too glad to have received it to care. He pulled it on over his pajamas. The package also contained a large chunk of homemade fudge.

His gift from Hermione did turn out to be a book. Muggle Studies; Monsters, Volume I. Harry turned the worn leather book over and a slip of paper fell out. He picked it up.

 _Happy Christmas, Harry_ , it read. _I haven't an owl so I'm giving this to Ron in the hopes that he'll actually remember to give it to you. I bought it for myself from an old book shop in Diagon Alley and thought you might like it. It compares monsters in Muggle fairytales to real life magical creatures. Rather useful as well as interesting, although it is slightly outdated. I think it's from the 1940's. I hope you like it! –Hermione_

Carefully, he replaced the note and opened to the first page.

" **Vampires**. Vampires are believed by Muggles to be the 'Undead'; corpses that come to life during the night to drink human blood. This belief was spread mostly by the book _Dracula_ , by Muggle author Bram Stoker. However, in the magical world, vampires are reclusive beings that often..."

The next page had a very detailed drawing of a classic vampire with Gothic words written near the fanged mouth – _The Blood is the Life_. He grinned at the gruesome illustration.

"What are you... oi! What the bloody hell is that?"

Harry handed the book to Ron, who scanned it quickly with an astonished expression.

"Who'd have known?" he mused. "I didn't think Hermione would have picked something like this."

"Well," said Harry, taking it back. "It looks very interesting. I'll have to owl her later."

When the owls came at breakfast, Harry, to his surprise, received several more packages. He didn't quite believe they were his until he saw _Harry Potter_ very clearly written on them. Further inspection revealed a wooden flute from Hagrid and a strange, shimmering silver cloak. Although he turned the thing over several times looking for a card or any means of identifying the sender, he found nothing. Ron strolled over to the Slytherin table, chewing on a scone, to examine it.

"That's queer," he said, frowning. He fingered the material. "I've never seen anything like it. I wonder what it is. Who's it from?"

"I don't know."

"That is queer."

They sat in silence for a couple moments. Ron chewed several times and then swallowed.

"Well, don't sit here by yourself. Why don't you come to the Gryffindor table? I don't think it matters where we sit when there's barely anyone here."

* * *

He studied the cloak more closely that night in the quiet of his bedroom. There was nothing strange about the material itself. It looked and felt rather like silk. He swirled it around a few times and then threw it about himself. Then he caught sight of himself in the mirror.

" _Oh._ So that's what it does."

He walked closer to the mirror and inspected himself. Only his head was visible. The rest of his body had completely disappeared. He pulled the cloak off and his body was whole again. He tried it again several times with the same result. It was a cloak of invisibility. Quite a useful item. He folded it carefully and placed it on his bed.

He opened the box of Chocolate Frogs Ron had given him and stared at the cloak for several minutes, chewing meditatively on the candy. He absently glanced down at the card from the box. A chunk of chocolate almost fell from his mouth as he gaped at the words.

He had gotten Dumbledore again. But what had caught his attention was one of the other names on the card.

"Considered by many to be the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of Dragon's blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicholas Flamel..."

 _Nicholas Flamel_. The man Hagrid had mentioned who was co-owner of whatever was in the Gringott's package. Harry read the card over again.

He put it under his pillow for safekeeping (neither his drawers nor his chest was free from prying eyes) and lay back on his bed, marveling at the perfect timing. He would have to tell Ron and Hermione about his discovery.

In the meantime, he grabbed the book Hermione had given him and opened it to a random page. He rolled over onto his stomach to read, but the picture that stared up at him made him freeze.

At first glance, it appeared to be of a normal man. A tall one, but normal. But his eyes were terrifying. They were black, and not just the pupils or even the irises. The whole eyeball was a deep, inky black.

His breath catching in his throat, he scanned the page opposite.

" **Demons**. Demons are believed by Muggles to be fiends from hell. Often, they are told to be the ravaged, twisted souls of former humans. Demonic possession is a widely known and feared ability of these creatures, who are able to enter a body without consent. There are many ways to identify a person who is possessed; these include the speaking of certain words and the usage of certain materials that either repel demons or reveal their standard black eyes..."

He was finding it hard to breathe and struggled to suppress the panic attack.

 _Calm down! Stop it, they don't exist, you've never seen..._

But he had. Neville. Those eyes. He thought he had imagined it, but now he wasn't so sure. He read on, but not once did the book give the "certain words" or "certain materials" necessary to keep such a creature at bay. Frustrated, he almost threw it to the ground in despair.

"Don't be an idiot."

He spoke aloud, as if by doing so his words would have more conviction and truth.

"Demons don't exist. Hermione said clearly that these are creatures from fairytales. Why on earth am I getting all worked up about it?"

Moodily, he tossed the book beside him on his bed. He stared at the worn cover for several moments before jumping up and tearing one of his scrolls carelessly in half (Hermione would have been horrified to see him do that). He took out a quill and began writing furiously.

About halfway through, he stopped and looked at what he had written. The letter was so garbled and uneven and incomprehensible that he crumpled it up into a hard little ball and threw it away. His second attempt was better.

 _Dear Hermione,_ it read. _Happy Christmas! Thanks ever so much for the book. Ron told me to tell you that he gave it to me first thing this morning (he did, really). It looks very interesting. I've already read some of it... something about demons. They don't give much of a description for some of the facts; for example, it says that certain words and materials repel demons. I was wondering if you could do some research on them over the rest of hols because I'm most frightfully interested._

It would have to do. He decided it would be better to add something about his activities to balance the subject matter of the letter.

 _Ron's mum sent me a sweater just like he said she would, and a box of fudge, too. Hagrid gave me a wooden flute and I got a queer cloak from someone who didn't give me their name._

He didn't tell her its abilities, not wanting to give out the information through a letter.

 _It's rather cold now, and lonely down here in the Slytherin dorms. Can't wait for you to come back. Hope you have a great Christmastime. -Harry_

He sealed it quickly and placed it on the dresser to send next morning. Then the invisibility cloak caught his eye again. It would be rather fun to put it straight to use. Making up his mind, he slipped it over his head and took the letter.

The passages were cold and drafty. He ventured out but stayed near the walls for fear of bumping into someone he didn't really want to meet (such as Filch... or Snape). For the first time, he realized just how far the Owlery was from the dungeon, and it made his heart sink. His desire to send the letter off, though, trumped his discomfort, and he hurried his steps onward.

Hedwig seemed annoyed at being woken so late at night, and gave him a long-suffering look before allowing him to tie the letter string around her foot.

"Take it to Hermione," he whispered to her, carrying her to one of the windows. She spread out her large wings, ready to take flight.

"Hermione!" he repeated, more loudly, as she flew off into the night.

* * *

 **Reviews – especially constructive criticism – are always very much appreciated! Thank you!**


	4. Chapter 4

_**Well!**_ **Guess who's back, ladies and gents, after a long exile! Although, to be fair, I did warn you beforehand. If you review, loves, it'll feed my muse and you can read more. Hope you enjoy.**

 **Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me except for parts of the story line and my little twists. Things you recognize are probably from the books or TV show.**

* * *

BOOK ONE

Chapter IV

* * *

Harry exhaled in relief when he was passed and undetected by Filch. The minuscule sound seemed to have been picked up by Mrs. Norris' sharp ears, because the cat turned and its yellow eyes bored into the darkness. Harry knew that the cloak was impenetrable, but a shiver ran down his spine, and he stood as still as he could, not daring to breathe until the light of their lantern had disappeared far down the passage.

Somehow, whenever he tried to sneak out of the dorms, Filch ended up on his tail. Either the man had a sixth sense or he and Harry shared a special connection – horrified at the idea, Harry shook his head vigorously. It would be better not to dwell such a disturbing thought.

Hermione hadn't yet replied to his letter. Every now and then, he would start panicking until he realized that it had only been a couple days. Consequently, he found himself walking the halls of Hogwarts at the dead of night to find information about Nicholas Flamel. Not only did it keep his mind off the possibly possessed Neville, but he wanted to have something concrete to show Hermione (and Ron, of course) at the end of the holidays.

Over the past two days, he had ransacked the Hogwarts library for information on the man (to the annoyance of Ron, who had told him that there were holidays for a reason and that he was going to end up just like Hermione) but the results were disappointing. Truth be told, Dumbledore's Chocolate Frog card had given them more information on the man than all of the books combined, and it had only revealed Flamel's name. Harry's desperate final shot consisted of breaking into the restricted section of the library and hoping against all hope that Madam Pince wouldn't find and murder him in the process.

The door was locked, but that small problem was fixed with a whispered " _Alohomora_!" and Harry slipped inside. He took off his cloak and folded it gently, staring about him with equal parts interest and apprehension.

The bookshelves loomed in front of him as he passed, his lantern throwing only the smallest circle of light. The restricted section was enclosed with tall metal bars (it looked too much like a prison cell for his comfort) and the door had a deadbolt, but queerly enough another simple _Alohomora_ got him past these defenses as well. He was starting to feel uneasy.

The restricted books were mostly those that were old or particularly rare, or those that contained dark magic. There were rows upon rows of them, and he hurried to the F's, pleasantly surprised when he found a line of books, all entitled _Flamel_ , or _Flamel: Contributions to Alchemy_ , or _Flamel and the Key to Immortality_. He frowned when he saw that one and quickly extracted it from its shelf.

"What comes to mind when one hears the name 'Nicholas Flamel?'"

Harry narrowed his eyes. _Nothing if there's no information to be got except in restricted sections._

"For some, it is his remarkable accomplishments in the field of alchemy. For others, it is his unique life story, or his connection to one of the greatest modern wizards, Albus Dumbledore. However, Flamel's most marvelous achievement remains the creation of his Philosopher's Stone, to which is attributed his exceptionally long and continued life, as well as that of his wife."

His interest peaked, Harry continued to read eagerly.

"From the Philosopher's Stone can be drawn the elixir of life, which is..."

His lantern crashed to the ground, instantly blinking out. He had absently cuffed it with his elbow. Frozen, he stared at the shattered glass until a waspish voice broke him out of his trance.

"Who's there? Who's in the library after hours?"

He groaned internally and managed to whisk the book back into the shelf and hide himself and his lantern under the invisibility cloak before Madam Pince could see him. Did she _live_ in the library? She was a most inconvenient and inconsiderate old lady.

Madam Pince stuck her head between each row of shelves with beady, suspicious eyes. Harry hurriedly gathered the broken glass, trying to make as little noise as possible, but they clinked together and Madam Pince's head snapped in his direction. The door to the restricted section creaked open as she stalked inside. Harry was just able to hop out of the way as she swept past him and he fled without looking back, hoping he hadn't left any incriminating evidence.

At least he knew now (or he thought he knew) what Snape was trying to steal and what Fluffy was guarding. Whatever the elixir of life was, it sounded as if it was difficult to obtain and probably rather valuable. The package had to be the Philosopher's Stone. He returned to the dungeons highly pleased with himself, even with his heart still pounding erratically.

He seemed to be having a lucky streak. The next morning, Hedwig soared into the Hall with a crisp, fat letter hanging from her claws. Harry tore it open eagerly. The paper was covered in Hermione's neat schoolgirl's handwriting.

 _Dear Harry_ , she wrote. _I'm so glad that you like your book! I already wrote Ron and told him that I'm glad he kept his word, but you can tell him again, from me, if you want to. You've read a lot if you've already gotten to the demon section._

 _I've done a lot of research as you asked. I'm not sure how much of it you really want but I'll include it all as you seem interested. Don't worry, I enjoyed it immensely._

 _Because demons are discussed in some areas of the Christian faith, it's generally believed that holy items, such as blessed water, will repel them. According to a book I found ("Biblical Lore" if you're interested in looking it up yourself; unfortunately that's quite a general name), holy water burns when it comes in contact with the skin of the possessed. Saying "Christo" will make the possessed man or woman's eyes turn black. Also, salt is believed to be a purifier, and will both burn and repel a demon._

 _Some runic circles act as wards and will form an invisible but impenetrable wall that demons are unable to cross. I've included a small illustration below:_

Harry squinted at the rough diagram she'd written. He had no idea what some of the symbols meant, but he would hopefully be able to copy it. He resolved to practice several times before putting it to real use.

 _I also learned about exorcisms (I'm sure you've heard of those before) that expel demons from their hosts. I'm not sure if you know this, but while being possessed, a human is often completely comatose – I thought that would be an interesting little extra bit of information. Unfortunately I couldn't find the wording of an exorcism in any of the books._

Harry barely suppressed a groan of disappointment. An exorcism would have been exceedingly useful. He would have to find one himself. He had still only read about half of Hermione's letter. She had plenty more to tell him, but he didn't mind having to answer such a long missive as he was grateful to have so much to work with.

 _That's basically all I've found out so far. It would be much better if you could somehow get to a regular library and research yourself... then you can look for exactly what you want. I wasn't quite sure what you were trying to find, so I just read random bits of information and trying to piece it together into something somewhat coherent. My parents are probably worried about me, looking up dark things like demons and exorcisms!_

There was a small blot here, as if Hermione had tried to smudge out the last few words, but had decided against it.

 _But I really don't mind, Harry, I don't. I'm very glad you approached with your question. Anyway, I'll tell you what I've been doing so far over hols._

 _Mum and Dad invited my Uncle Robert and Aunt Vivien over for Christmas dinner, along with their little son, Jeremy. I love him, but he is rather loud. Besides, he has an extremely unhealthy obsession with superheroes, especially one called Spiderman. Boys will be boys, I expect._

 _Dad also insisted that we invite his Great-Aunt Abby. Oh, Harry, she was absolutely horrid. She said I was scrawny and that I read too much, and that I shouldn't wear ugly sweaters at family gatherings (that sweater was Mrs. Weasley's gift, too!). She was a horrible old hag, and I'm not sorry for saying so._

 _Mum and Dad are taking me skiing this last weekend before school starts again. I'm awfully excited for that, but I'll be glad to go back to Hogwarts and to see you and Ron. I've got to go now. Mum is calling me down for dinner and Hedwig looks dreadfully impatient._

 _I hope you are enjoying holiday._

 _Your friend,_

 _Hermione Granger_

He folded the paper thoughtfully. Fortunately Neville had gone home like the rest of the students (although Harry was sort of worried for Grandmother Longbottom, he was glad that he had some time to think and plan). There were only five days left, one of which was full, as Ron told him that Mrs. Weasley had owled them about going to Diagon Alley on Saturday. That left four gloriously empty days.

If he was lucky, he would be able to slip away from the Weasley's to London to purchase the necessary materials. He doubted any of the professors had holy water, and it would be difficult and risky to steal salt (What could he do? Pour it into his pocket during breakfast?). He would also have to allot time to go to a library and hopefully find an exorcism. He had a sneaking suspicion, however, that the job wouldn't be as easy as it sounded.

* * *

"Harry! Ron! Stay out of the way!"

Mrs. Weasley's voice sounded as if it came from the end of a long tunnel, and was nearing rapidly. Harry hurriedly pushed Ron to the side of the fireplace as she popped out, her hat askew and her clothes rumpled. Ginny followed, holding very tightly to Fred's (or George's) hand. He still couldn't tell them apart – at least at first glance. Once he started a conversation with them (if he got that far at all; often he found himself the butt of a prank before he could say a word) he could distinguish them, as George seemed the quieter twin and Fred the more dynamic.

The Weasley matriarch looked around at her large family and sighed, half with affection and half in despair. Harry tried his best to shrink behind Ron, feeling very conspicuous indeed. His coloring contrasted considerably with the red and orange heads that surrounded him.

He just hoped he wouldn't draw anyone's attention. That would probably be the least convenient thing that could happen during this venture. Not for the first time since they'd left, he wished he had told Ron. He could have used the help and company. But that would have required him to risk disbelief and explain everything about Neville and demonic possession, which would have been both tedious and time consuming.

"Harry? Harry!"

He jumped. From the volume of Ron's voice, he had probably been trying to get his attention for some time.

"Sorry, I didn't hear you."

"Obviously," Ron scoffed. "Me standing right beside you and all. Can't you see we're going? Don't stare at Gringotts. It has nothing interesting... not considering the money, of course."

Harry laughed.

"I was just thinking."

"What about?"

They fell into step with each other, trailing some distance behind the rest of the group.

"Snape," Harry lied hurriedly. He scratched his ear guiltily.

Ron nodded in understanding.

"Yeah, he's a strange old geezer. I wonder how he does it. Is he ever holding his wand?"

Harry wrinkled his nose, forgetting for a moment what "it" was.

"I don't think so," he admitted finally. "But there is such a thing as wandless magic, you know."

"True."

Thankfully, Ron didn't pry any further. He merely rubbed his nose mournfully (he was only just recovering from a cold; a nasty one that had kept him in bed for several days) and promptly tripped on the unraveling hem of his robe. He reddened and gathered it up while Harry looked pointedly away.

He was always rather embarrassed when he was with the whole Weasley clan. When it was him and Ron and Hermione chumming around, it was easy to forget their financial differences. But when it was just him in the middle of the family, he was uncomfortably aware of the heavy gold Galleons that weighed down his pocket. Ron graciously made no comment. If his ears reddened while Harry paid his bills with his never-ending supply of coins, nobody mentioned it.

When they rejoined the rest of the group, Ginny and Mrs. Weasley were missing, presumably off on some little errand of their own, but all the boys (and Mr. Weasley, too, although he pretended reluctance) went eagerly to the Quidditch shop to look at the new Nimbus.

A large crowd had gathered around the door and window, excitedly pointing at the gleaming broom that hung on display. They joined the people, squeezing as close as they could to the exhibit. Fred and George were already whispering to each other about the technicalities of the game and how well the Nimbus would perform, while Ron hung around them with a wistful expression and wished to be included.

Harry would have dawdled with Ron on the outskirts of the conversation if he was interested in Quidditch, but he wasn't. He might have been had he known much about the game, but first years weren't allowed on the team and he had been far too busy over the past half year to research the rules. He realized suddenly that he had not gone even once to the games and wondered if it would be (or had been already) viewed as disloyalty towards Slytherin. After the mishap of his first flying lesson, the brooms and height and speed of Quidditch held little intrigue for him.

He looked about himself to find the other members of the Weasley family and found none in sight. It seemed almost too easy, but he wouldn't poke up his nose at good luck. Slipping back through the crowds and into the cobbled street, Harry sprinted until he decided that he was more conspicuous running and slowed to a walk.

Diagon Alley was rather long. He panted and kept his eyes glued to the ground. Unfortunately, he very nearly ran into Mrs. Weasley, who was coming out of a clothing shop with Ginny in tow. She was mumbling to herself and rummaging through her sack and so missed him. He shrank back just in time to avoid crashing into her, but Ginny caught sight of him and started in surprise.

"Mummy, look, there's..."

Harry signed frantically for her to be quiet.

"Yes, dear?" Mrs. Weasley inquired absently, lifting her head to look at her youngest child. Ginny quickly looked away from Harry and pointed to the shop across the street.

"... the book shop," she continued hurriedly. "They have... all the books for next year."

"Yes, dear."

"I'm going to Hogwarts next year, Mum."

"I'd forgotten. How about if we go over and take a look?"

"I'd like that. I'm so excited," said Ginny, with mournful resignation.

Their voices blended with the noise of the crowd as they crossed the street. Harry breathed a sigh of relief and stole into Gringotts. The goblins were rather intimidating, but he had to have Muggle money if he wanted to do anything in London.

"Excuse me," he said politely to the creature on the other side of the counter. The goblin grunted and continued counting coins. Harry shifted and hoped he wasn't being offensive.

"Could I exchange a few Galleons for pounds?"

The goblin grunted again and held out a grimy hand. Harry eyed it dubiously but dropped a few Galleons into it. The goblin licked his finger and felt them over carefully. He must have found them satisfactory because he grunted again, a little more pleased this time rather than dour, and counted out fifty pounds sterling. Harry took it thankfully (more time was being used up by the second, and he was afraid Mr. or Mrs. Weasley might find him before he escaped).

It was ridiculously easy to slip out of the alley with a group of young witches. They chattered and laughed and rustled their packages loudly, and he only had to be whisked through the gap in the brick wall. He left them and hurried to the door, throwing it open and stepping out into Muggle London.

A car squealed past him, lights glaring in his eyes, followed by another, and another. He jumped back as one splashed through a puddle, spraying him with dirty water, and he wiped his face with his sleeve. It was noisy in Diagon Alley, but this was far noisier, and more bustling, and _huge_.

"What on earth am I doing here?" he muttered out loud, staring at the tall building across the street. "This has got to be the stupidest idea I've had yet."

An old lady gave him a strange look as she passed, holding tightly to the leash of a small pug, and he remembered suddenly that he was still in his robes.

When he'd changed, he gathered his wizard's robes into his bag (he had a black Muggle backpack he'd bought during his shopping expedition with Hagrid) and walked a little way down the street, feeling utterly lost. He hadn't had time to look for a map, so he tried to remember where the nearest library was, and made a hash of it, as he had only been to London twice in his life.

It was disconcerting to stand in the middle of a busy city street and to be alone and not to know what exactly you were doing. He was getting hungry, too, and he didn't have much time before the Weasley's found him (he wasn't particularly stealthy and plenty of people could probably recognize him, not to mention Ginny, who might eventually blurt out the truth).

He was saved by a little information office. It was near what he presumed was a historical building and seemed to be full of brochures. A bell tinkled gently as he walked in, and the woman at the counter looked up, smiling.

"Hello, dear," she said kindly. "How may I help you? Are you lost?"

"No," Harry told her, smiling back, "but thank you. I've just moved down the street with my mum and dad, and I wondered if you knew where the nearest library was. The new term is starting soon and I want to be prepared."

"I'm pretty sure there's one a few blocks away," she said thoughtfully, reaching down to take some sheet of paper. She examined it carefully.

He suddenly wondered if she could be a demon, and then he wondered if he was becoming paranoid. But he muttered " _Christo_ " under his breath (it seemed the least obvious and the most easily accessible of the tests). She didn't react to the word besides giving him a puzzled glance. He sighed in relief.

"Here it is!" She slapped the paper onto the counter, and he saw that it was a map of the area nearby. "Two blocks, take a left, walk another three blocks and it's on your right."

"Thank you so much. Do you mind if..." he gestured to the map.

"Oh, of course not."

He stowed it away in his backpack and smiled at her once more as he left.

* * *

This librarian was the exact opposite of Madam Pince. She was a pretty young woman with braided hair and thick-rimmed spectacles who helpfully pointed him out to the section on Christian and Biblical lore (he'd explained that he was writing a school paper in case she came upon him reading an exorcism). It was a small section of the library, and secluded.

He gathered a pile of books that seemed likely places to start and settled down at the single table that stood between the bookshelves, feeling very much like Hermione. It was easy enough to find an exorcism; in fact, there were so many he wasn't sure which to choose. He settled on the most basic one and began to copy it onto a scrap of paper.

 _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, ergo draco maledicte, ut ecclesiam tuam secura, tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos._

The words sent an unpleasant shiver down his spine. He had taken a short Latin language course in third grade, but it was enough for him to realize the main gist of words. _Satanica potestas_? And s _ecta diabolica_? But he did grin at the next part. He would have given one thousand galleons just to see Malfoy's face if he was informed that his name was in a Muggle exorcism.

"Are you finding everything that you need?"

He jumped and spun around, slamming the book closed with a solid thud. The librarian looked startled. Harry gaped at her for a moment (he was more surprised at himself than anything) and then snapped his mouth shut.

"I'm sorry," he said, with a quick, nervous laugh. "You surprised me."

His fingers groped for the copied exorcism and he crumpled it into his fist. The young woman blinked.

"I'll speak up sooner next time so I don't," she told him, smiling. Her eyes flickered black and her grin widened.

Harry froze for a moment in shock before tumbling off his chair and scrambling away. There was only a window behind him, and it was far too high for him to use as an escape route. The woman flashed her white teeth at him.

"Oh, don't run away from me, little boy," she pouted. "I'm not scary, am I? I'm just friendly, helpful Miss Trent."

"Get away from me," said Harry, his voice shaking. "Get away from me, I tell you!"

She curled her lip derisively.

"Oh, so you're a coward. I hate cowards."

Suddenly he was thrown backwards, his arms and legs pinned to the wall. He struggled to move, but in vain. The demon sauntered towards him and stroked his cheek.

"So smooth and pretty," she crooned.

"Stop it!"

She rolled her eyes boredly and turned to the books he had gathered on the table.

"What have we here? Looking up some Christian lore, were you? You didn't happen to find some exorcisms?"

Harry strained his neck to stare down at the scrap of paper he held. The words were only just legible on the crumpled paper.

" _Exorcizamus te_ ," he whispered, hoping frantically that she wouldn't notice him, "o _mnis immundus spiritus..._ "

Her head snapped back and she gave an angry hiss.

"You little fool," she snarled, curling her fingers into claws. "Wait till I get my hands on you!"

All he could do was rush through the rest of the words, his voice faltering as she began to writhe and shriek and foam at the mouth ( _why did no one come?_ ).

"... o _mnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica._.."

With a loud scream, she threw back her head and a cloud of black smoke burst out of her mouth, gathering in a large mass over her head before dispersing. He fell to the ground with a gasp of relief, sobbing hysterically from fright. He heard a shrill voice speaking and realized it was his own, trying to finish the exorcism. He clutched his chest and took huge gulps of air.

"It's over," he whispered, trapped in a state of utter panic. "It's over, it's over."

He crawled to the woman stretched prone on the floor, his body shaking uncontrollably. It was too difficult to roll her dead weight over, but he lifted her eyelids and saw only the whites of her eyes.

"What happened?" someone asked him.

He shook his head, still grasping her crisp, ruffled shirt.

"I don't know... I don't know. It was a seizure... or... or... something... she just... collapsed... it..."

To his horror, he almost broke into sobs again. Someone took hold of his shoulder gently and guided him to his feet. He clung unashamedly to his rescuer (it must have been a man, judging from the cut of the dull greenish jacket).

"Why don't you go telephone the police, buddy?" the man suggested kindly.

"O... okay. I'll do that."

Somehow he made his way to the wired telephone (he remembered vaguely how it worked; the Dursleys hadn't let him use theirs much) and punched in a number. He waited anxiously, his breath catching. His heart was still pounding and he started violently when a voice answered.

"Hello. Police."

"Hello." He breathed a sigh of relief. "I... I need help. It's... there's a woman... she's had a seizure. Could you send an ambulance, please?"

"Right away. Stay on the line, sonny, I'll..."

Harry put down the phone on the desk. The man who had helped him earlier was still busy with Miss Trent, and a small gathering of people had clustered around the woman's inert body, so he was able to steal out of the library unnoticed, having gotten what he needed.

His legs felt like jello. Sitting agitatedly on the steps outside the library, he studied his map. There was a church one block away, and a shop two blocks away in the opposite direction. Wearily, he rose to his feet and rolled it up, stuffing it in his pocket as he began to trudge in the direction of the church.

* * *

"Mr. Potter, this is unacceptable. Students are not to wander about on their own, especially without informing their guardians. I believe I made that clear before you left."

Professor McGonagall glared at him over the tops of her spectacles and he squirmed uncomfortably. Her office was bare and impeccably clean; it felt like a courtroom.

"I'm sorry..." he started, but she cut him off.

"You'll serve detention with me after dinner, every night for four weeks. I trust you'll come here on time?"

Harry nodded, staring at his feet.

"Very well, Mr. Potter, you may go. But you are not to leave the school premises until the summer holidays."

"Yes, Professor."

He gloomily rose and walked to the dorms, his hands stuffed in his pockets. The only good things that had come of his little expedition to Muggle London were the supplies. Otherwise, both Mrs. Weasley and Ron were upset with him, he had received four weeks of detention, and he had had a terrifying encounter with a demon.

In some ways he was glad for that. Now he wouldn't have to use Neville to experiment on the aftereffects of possession. He had also gotten some experience, although hardly enough to make him feel comfortable confronting a being with that amount of power... and evil power at that.

Again, and not for the first time, he wished that his friends could help him. He knew, however, that it would only put them in danger, and that three inexperienced people could bungle up more than one inexperienced person. And then there would be a small issue if Neville turned out not to be possessed, in which case it would be less humiliating if only he witnessed his own shame.

But he still wished he wasn't working alone.

* * *

 **Reviews – especially constructive criticism – are always very much appreciated! Thank you!**


	5. Chapter 5

**I'm so eager to push the Supernatural part into this that it's very difficult to hold myself back… but I am and I don't have a very good gauge for how much I'm actually doing it. Hopefully I'm not making the story too long and drawn-out. After this it will be picking up its pace, I promise!**

 **Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me except for parts of the story line and my little twists. Things you recognize are probably from the books or TV show.** **  
**

* * *

BOOK ONE

Chapter V

* * *

The brooms were very heavy, Harry decided, and only reinforced his apathy towards Quidditch. He also decided that McGonagall held no secret softness of heart towards him at all; she meted out justice sternly and unyieldingly. He had only just finished his detention for the day, and it was well past dark. McGonagall had told him that he'd better hurry or he would miss curfew, which unfortunately was in fifteen minutes (and counting). He seriously doubted that he would make it.

The brooms were inconveniently stored two floors above and the staircases were being particularly unhelpful. He had to wait twice for some of them to shift, and he got so muddled that he ended up going down the wrong passageway, only realizing it when he was about ten minutes past the supposed broom closet and there was no one else in sight.

Abruptly, he halted and stared about him, suddenly feeling a bit worried and wishing he had been given a map. He couldn't ask for help even from the paintings as they had all gone to sleep. Several sleepy, wispy ghosts trailed about unresponsively, their eyes half-closed. He didn't try to get their attention until the Bloody Baron swept by, his face impassive. Harry shifted the brooms from one hand to the other and took off after him.

"Excuse me," he called. "Bl..." he almost said "Bloody" but he didn't know if the Bloody Baron would take very kindly to that, "Mr. Baron, sir, I need..."

The ghost whooshed through the stone wall without a backwards glance. Harry slowed to a trot, feeling very downcast. House ghost, indeed. One of the metal buckets hit his ankle with a sharp crack.

"Ow!"

He dropped the bucket to clutch his injured limb. It went rolling off down the corridor, making a terrific din as metal clattered against stone flooring.

He was able to snatch it up before it went far, and when he looked up, he saw pale light streaming into the passage from a half-opened door. Breathing a sigh of relief (he'd finally gotten back to civilization), he jogged to the source and pushed open the door all the way.

There was no one inside the room. In fact, there was nothing at all besides a very tall, very ornate mirror, which he stared at curiously. In some weird way, it _felt_ curious to him, despite its relatively ordinary appearance. It seemed also rather menacing, in that painted clown, old castle, vintage doll sort of way.

His reflection neared him, green eyes unblinking, staring at him curiously under thick dark hair. He could see his pails and brooms resting near the doorway where he had left them. The eerie blue glow seemed to exude from the mirror itself, but he couldn't tell exactly where.

He reached out to touch the bright green eyes... his mother's eyes. They fascinated him; he didn't feel like they were really his.

"It is quite a rarity, that mirror."

Harry started and jerked his hand away. The headmaster stood at the doorway, staring at him with an unreadable expression in his bright blue eyes... eyes that were very bright indeed for a man his age. Harry squirmed under their inspection. Why hadn't he seen him come in?

"I'm sorry, sir," he said. "I was just walking about, and I saw the door open. I didn't know the mirror was special. It seems very ordinary, sir."

Dumbledore looked at him owlishly from behind round spectacles.

"Ordinary, Mr. Potter? In what way is it ordinary?"

Harry wrinkled his forehead in puzzlement.

"I mean," he ventured. "It shows my reflection. Isn't that what all mirrors do?"

"How odd," Dumbledore murmured thoughtfully, coming to stand beside him.

They stared at the mirror together for several long moments, Dumbledore clearly not intending to further elaborate on his words.

"Excuse me, sir, but why is that odd?" Harry asked finally, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"The mirror is called the Mirror of Erised," said Dumbledore. He touched the mirror gently and almost longingly. "Erised – desire spoken backwards."

Harry frowned.

"The Mirror of Desire."

"Precisely. It shows you the wish nearest to your heart... your deepest desire."

"I don't understand, then, why it didn't show me anything," Harry burst out. "There are so many things I want. My mum, my father, a family... but there's nothing, nobody."

"What your mind tells you doesn't often parallel your true longing."

"That doesn't make any sense," Harry said, tired of their cryptic conversation. "Shouldn't _it_ know, even if I don't?"

"I've no answers for you, Harry," the headmaster admitted. "Perhaps the mirror's age diminishes its abilities."

The odd gleam in his eyes seemed to say otherwise, but Harry thought the better of bringing it up. He sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Good night, Headmaster," he said quietly.

He received only a nod in response. Dumbledore seemed lost in whatever the mirror was showing him. Harry retreated to the door.

"A moment, Mr. Potter."

Dumbledore's voice stopped him.

"Ten points from Slytherin for being out after curfew." The blue eyes twinkled. "But don't worry, I won't report you to our school's laudable caretaker."

"Thank you, sir. Goodnight."

He was relieved to get away with such light punishment (even if it hadn't really been his fault), but he puzzled over the mirror. It had clearly shown Dumbledore's deepest desire, and so was evidently unaffected by one's magical proficiency. Why would it not have shown his?

* * *

"Hullo, Harry!"

Harry got a mouthful of thick brown hair. He gagged a little but hugged Hermione back.

"Hullo, Hermione. How was your holiday?"

"It was great, Harry," she said excitedly, speaking over a din of noise as all the other students disembarked from the Express. "What about yours?"

He sniffed and rubbed his face awkwardly (he'd caught Ron's cold, to his chagrin). The rough cloth tickled his nose and he sneezed. Hermione gave him a sympathetic look.

"Good, I guess. But I was put in detention."

Her sympathy quickly morphed into stern reproof.

"What did you do?"

He scuffed his foot against the floor.

"Nothing. They were overreacting."

"Harry."

"No." He shook his head firmly. "I might tell you later. C'mon, let's go in."

"All right, but you're not off the hook," she reminded him breathlessly, trying to keep up with his longer strides.

"Okay," he said fondly, ruffling her frizzy hair.

"Harry!" she exclaimed, scandalized and trying to flatten it. "You don't know the trouble I put in to make it this as straight as possible."

"I probably don't," he agreed.

They walked unhurriedly down the path to the courtyard. Harry wished they could have gone in the carriages, but apparently they were only used at the beginning and end of the school year, aside from the first years' boat ride. He would dearly have liked to ride in a _real_ horseless carriage.

"Harry," Hermione said, suddenly thoughtful. "You're different."

"Oh?" he asked absently, still occupied half with thinking about the carriages and half with wishing that feet didn't blister. "How so?"

She shook her head.

"You aren't as... Oh, I don't know... you're not like you were in the train before we came here. It's like you're always thinking about what you say, or stopping yourself, or covering something up. "

Taken back, he drew his complete attention to their conversation.

"I don't do it on purpose," he said, almost indignantly, although he wasn't yet sure what he was indignant about.

"I think you need to be careful," Hermione told him earnestly. "I think that's what Slytherin is doing to you."

"What about Slytherin?" he asked, guarded. "Nothing's wrong with Slytherin."

"I didn't say there was."

Hermione didn't say anymore, evidently afraid they might fight. Harry kicked a pebble that lay in his path rather sullenly. He hated all the prejudice at Hogwarts. Purebloods, halfbloods, muggleborn. All the houses against Slytherin and Slytherin against all the houses. It was completely ridiculous.

"There's nothing wrong with me," he said insistently.

"I didn't say that," Hermione said quickly, and added, "Shall we find Ron?"

"No," Harry said shortly. "He's angry with me."

"Why?"

Hermione sounded surprised, and Harry couldn't really blame her.

"I don't know," he said. "I've been wondering that myself."

"Did it have something to do with detention?"

"No."

Hermione looked at him very shrewdly and waited.

"Yes," he admitted.

She sighed, just a very little.

"I'd better go find him anyway."

* * *

It was after Harry's fifth detention that he received a knock on the door of his bedroom. He opened it to find Draco, who looked like he was being poisoned by Harry's very presence.

"Your _friend_ ," he managed to make the word sound like a personal insult, "is at the door asking for you, Potter."

"All right," Harry replied curtly, only keeping the door open a crack. "Thanks."

Draco turned his back without answering and stalked away. Harry closed the door and slumped on his bed with a groan. It wasn't a great time for either Ron or Hermione to have come as he was in a very sour mood and hated the idea of company.

Just that morning, he had gotten into a huge argument with Margaret (what was really terrible was that he didn't even remember what it was about) which had resulted in sullenness on both sides. She had ignored him ever since, and he had, to some extent, ignored her as well because of the piles of homework he still had left to do.

It wasn't very nice to be at odds with his only House friend... if Margaret could really be called a friend. She was a strange mixture of sarcasm and friendliness and hostility, and he couldn't decide whether he was supposed to be useful to her or if she'd befriended him on a whim.

Now he was being shamefully nonconfrontational and was sitting in his room preparing for the exorcism of the Neville demon. He wished that Hermione could have given him the Devil's Trap because he was instead reduced to more primitive means of trapping it. The only idea he'd had was somehow to imbed salt in Neville's clothes and exorcise the demon while it was in pain.

Unfortunately he would have to enter the Gryffindor dorms to do so, not to mention somehow actually steal some of Neville's clothes without him noticing and manage to lace them with enough salt to leave the demon incapacitated. He wasn't even sure if salt _left_ demons incapacitated. With his lack of complete information, he was seriously considering postponing the face-off, but he was afraid if he waited too long the demon would put whatever its plans were into effect. Besides, he didn't know where to begin to look even if he had had the extra time.

When he crossed the common room, Margaret drew her book nearer to her face and pointedly ignored him. He grimaced and hurried his steps.

To his surprise, it was Ron who was waiting outside the door. He looked a little uncomfortable but very determined. Harry watched his expression warily, but the other boy seemed to have forgotten his earlier grievances, whatever they might have been.

"Harry!" Ron exclaimed. "You have to come."

Harry couldn't help pulling back a little as Ron took a step forward.

"What is it?" he asked, pretending he hadn't seen the wounded look on Ron's face.

"Can't tell you here," Ron told him. "Hermione said she'd wait for us in the library."

"Why is this such a big secret?" Harry asked, amusement winning over caution.

"You'll see."

As she had said, Hermione was sitting in a corner of the library. She had been reading, Harry noted, but whisked the book into her bag as they approached. She folded her hands on the table as they sat down in a close circle.

"Harry, this is really bad," she began, looking distressed. "If they find Norbert, Hagrid could be fired or sent away. We have to..."

"Hold on," Harry broke in. "Who is Norbert?"

"Hagrid's baby dragon."

Harry was staggered.

"Hagrid has a _dragon_?"

"Yes," said Hermione impatiently, batting away the wad of paper Ron tossed in her direction. "He bought a dragon egg from this man – he sounded like a really shady character, Harry – and now it's hatched. I don't know what he had planned, but we all know it isn't going to stay small forever. It was so very careless of him... he _knows_ it's illegal to keep dragons as pets!"

"As if anyone would _want_ to keep a deadly, fire-breathing monster as a pet anyway," Ron added under his breath, and he took a bite from one of Harry's chocolate frogs. Harry wondered how he had stolen it without him noticing... but it had been a gift from Ron after all, so he made no comment.

"Well, what are we supposed to do about it?" he asked, coming back to the conversation, and feeling extremely puzzled.

"Ron has an..." Hermione started.

"My older brother..." Ron said at the same time.

They both stopped and shot a look at each other, and evidently came to some unspoken agreement.

"It's my brother, Charlie," Ron explained, turning back to face Harry. "He works with dragons in Romania and we thought we could smuggle Norbert over there before anyone finds out."

"But the _real_ trouble is," Hermione put in, leaning forward eagerly, "when Hagrid bought it, he somehow ended up telling the seller how to get past Fluffy."

Having had a momentary lapse of memory (in his defense, there had been a lot on his mind recently), Harry stared at her in confusion.

"The three-headed dog you saw on the _third floor that you weren't supposed to go on_ ," Hermione reminded him ominously.

"Oh, right, keep rubbing it in, I don't mind." Then it hit him. "But that means..."

He looked from Ron to Hermione in dismay.

"I know," said Hermione, looking simultaneously pleased that he had understood the problem immediately and worried at the predicament they were now in. " _Someone knows how to get to the package from Gringotts_."

"The Philosopher's Stone," Harry contributed thoughtlessly.

"The what?"

"I forgot to tell you," Harry remembered. "While you were gone I looked up Flamel. It turns out his full name is Nicholas Flamel and he's an alchemist who knows Dumbledore. I think the package is his Philosopher's Stone. And it _is_ valuable, so that makes sense."

"But that's impossible," Hermione said, her forehead furrowing in confusion. "You couldn't have. I looked through the whole library and I couldn't find anything."

Then she suddenly looked suspicious.

"Harry, what did you do?"

Harry knew something must have shown on his face because her suspicion sharpened.

"I snuck into the Restricted Section," he confessed, keeping his voice very low in case Madam Pince was prowling about again. "There were lots of books about him. That's all I found out though, because I had to get away before Madam Pince found me."

Hermione looked appropriately scandalized and struggled for words. Her curiosity apparently won out.

"You're sure that's all you know?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Oh, and," Harry added, "how exactly _do_ you get past... Fluffy?"

"I forgot that part," Hermione admitted. "I was focusing more on the dragon problem."

"You have to sing or play music," Ron spoke up for the first time in a while, surprising both of them. "It makes it fall asleep. That's what Hagrid said anyway."

A student passed by holding an armful of books and they quickly hushed each other (Harry was pretty sure that they were a lot more obvious than they would have been if they hadn't). Ron peered through the gaps in the shelves to make sure she was gone before they continued their discussion.

"I wonder if that's why he gave me that flute for Christmas," Harry mused thoughtfully, toying with Hermione's quill. She snatched it away, muttering something about ruining the feather. He tapped his fingers against the hard wood of the table restlessly. "It seems a frightful coincidence."

"I don't think so," Hermione said primly. "You give him too little credit. He wouldn't do that."

"I'm not demeaning him or anything," Harry protested. "I just think he might have wanted to give us a hint in case anything happened."

"Not that we'd be able to do much if anything did," Ron said unhelpfully. He wadded another paper ball, evidently growing bored of the topic, and tossed it at Harry's head. "Come on, we're not getting anywhere with this. I say we go down to the lake until dinnertime and forget about Fluffy and Norbert and magic stones for a bit."

"I need to go back," Harry said regretfully, remembering Neville.

"You always need to go back," Ron observed, annoyed. "Don't they ever get tired of you?"

"I hope not," Harry said, rather coolly. "But I don't think they have much of a choice as I live there and all."

"I forget that sometimes," said Ron. He tossed another paper wad at Harry, as if in friendly apology, and then rose noisily. "All right, then. Hermione, you coming?"

"Let me just get my things," she promised, hurriedly throwing all her remaining scrolls and quills into her shoulder bag. They parted ways in the hall, promising to meet outside the Great Hall before dinner.

* * *

It turned out they didn't meet for dinner.

Harry was torn between feeling sorry for Ron and Hermione, who had to go through the Forbidden Forest at _night_ with Draco Malfoy and Hagrid for being out past curfew, and relieved that he didn't have to go through that experience. He'd had enough of detention with simply cleaning out classrooms and stacking books.

Ron bemoaned his fate constantly – although it would have been much worse had anyone known his reasons for being out – and elaborated a great deal on his fear of spiders, dramatically declaring that he would write his will before the dreadful night. Harry was dreading that night as well, but rather because he was planning on finally exorcising the demon. He didn't want Ron to be there (it would bring a lot of unwanted questions should he walk in on him spreading salt inside Neville's shirts).

"It'll be horrible," Ron moaned, for the hundredth time. "It'll be dark and there'll be _things_ in there."

"It'll be over soon," Harry said consolingly, placing a neat dot above his i. He lifted the scroll to examine his work. He poked Hermione's immobile shoulder. "Can you read this over, Hermione?"

" _You_ don't have to worry," Ron said darkly, kicking the leg of the table rather viciously. "Of course it'll be over soon for _you_."

"Just one thing, Harry," Hermione said from her armchair, after scanning the essay. "You switched steps three and four."

Harry snatched the paper back with mumbled thanks and scribbled out his mistake.

"Do you even care?" Ron asked despairingly.

"You're going to be with Hagrid," Harry reminded him. "I'm sure he'll make sure you're all right."

Ron looked a tad more cheerful.

"That's true." He took a glance at the clock and sighed. "Time to go, Hermione. Time to meet our doom. Goodbye, Harry."

Harry almost chuckled at the finality in his tone, but checked his amusement. He watched them leave without moving, his eyes following them to the door and remaining there until he was sure they were gone. Then he sprang to his feet, his scroll bouncing back into a roll. He stuffed it into his bag and hurried toward the dorms, checking off in his mind all the different materials that he needed.

It took very little time to gather them and he set off under his invisibility cloak, clutching a jar of salt and the scrap of paper on which the exorcism was written. He had memorized it, but not well enough to be sure of getting the words right, and he didn't want to be left with an angry, un-exorcised demon.

He had to wait until a first-year Gryffindor girl walked up to the door, and then he slipped in after her. The common room was crowded and noisy, and it was ridiculously difficult to get through without either bumping into someone or being trodden on. He was only just able to dodge the horrible explosive crumpet that Fred threw his way.

It was quieter near the sleeping quarters, a fact which, while convenient, meant that he had to walk especially softly to avoid being heard. Neville was nowhere to be seen. He quickly threw off his cloak and starting to flip up the sheets. After deciding that lacing Neville's clothes would be a gamble, he sprinkled salt around the perimeter of the room, breaking the line only at the door. It was with some alarm that he realized he would be trapping himself in the room with the demon, but there was nothing else to be done. He dragged out one of the square white bedsheets and filled it with salt, ready to be thrown over the exit once Neville came in.

He heard footsteps and hurriedly crouched behind the door, feeling very unprepared. Neville walked in, munching on a cookie. He walked all the way to the middle of the room and stopped without turning around, chewing very slowly on his last bit of pastry. Harry tossed the sheet across the doorway and grabbed his bottle of holy water.

Neville began to clap, still chewing slowly.

"Wonderful. Good job, Harry Potter, absolutely capital."

He spun to face him, his eyes coal-black and lifeless, and smiled.

"How tiresome," he sneered, glancing at the thin ribbon of white that lined the walls. "A salt line. You couldn't think of anything more original?"

Harry shrugged with false bravado, gripping the handle of the bottle more tightly.

"Well, it worked."

Neville laughed loudly, his eyes flickering back to normal.

"Oh, it did, did it?" he said genially. Then his face darkened, and he stepped closer. Harry almost took a step backward, but stopped himself. "Let me tell you something, Wonder-boy. I _knew_ you were up here, just like I _knew_ you saw my eyes at dinner, and just like I _knew_ you were going to the library to find an exorcism."

Harry felt the proverbial cold chill ripple down his spine.

"That was you, too?"

"Of course it was," Neville scoffed, with an impatient wave of his hand. "What did you think? You're my job, Harry Potter. I'm responsible. Of course it was _me_."

"Why are you here for me?" Harry asked, startled. He hadn't expected that at all. He'd thought the demon had had a plan in motion at Hogwarts... but not that the plan had been to watch him. "Why am I so important? I'm just Harry."

Neville's lip curled.

"You wouldn't comprehend the reasons," he said softly, but very icily. "The things you don't know about... oh, it's delicious just to think about them. And no, it has nothing to do with the Boy-Who-Lived trash." He leaned closer. "You're dealing with the big shots now... _Aagh_!"

Neville hissed wrathfully and jerked away as Harry splashed his face with holy water. He clawed frenziedly at his sizzling flesh.

"You rat," he snarled.

Harry leapt at him while he was incapacitated and knocked him to the ground, his strength augmented by his fear. Neville's head hit the stone floor with a sickening crack and as Harry poured holy water into the gurgling demon's throat, he prayed the real Neville wouldn't receive any lasting damage. Neville's eyes flew open, black again.

" _Exorcizamus te_ ," Harry yelled, spluttering as the demon hit his jaw with considerable force. " _Omnis Immundus Spiritus, Omnis Satanica Potestas, Omnis Incursio Infernalis_... Oof!"

The wind was knocked out of him as Neville's foot collided with his stomach, and he was kicked all the way back to the door. He felt the corners of the salt-filled sheet crumple beneath him as he gasped for breath. He scrambled for the holy water bottle before the demon could get its hands on it and threw another shower of holy water at it.

"... _Adversarii, Omnis Congregatio et Secta Diabolica, Ergo Draco Maledicte, ut Ecclesiam Tuam Secura, Tibi Facias Libertate Servire_..."

Neville's body began to jerk wildly as the demon screamed, coughing out gulps of black smoke. Harry wavered for a split second at the grotesque spectacle, and in that split second he was thrown against the wall, his back slamming into the cold stone. The bottle fell to the ground, its contents splattering all over the floor.

" _Te Rogamus, Audi Nos_!"

The demon screeched and clutched its head, throwing it backwards as black smoke spewed out of its mouth in torrents. Neville crumpled to the ground and Harry watched in horrified fascination as the black cloud gathered near the ceiling, hovering there for several seconds before disappearing in a burst of blood-red flames.

* * *

 **Reviews – especially constructive criticism – are always very much appreciated! Thank you!**


	6. Chapter 6

**I apologize ahead of time for making you reread the part about the obstacles. I did make some somewhat important changes, though, so I'm not _very_ sorry.**

 **Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me except for parts of the story line and my little twists. Things you recognize are probably from the books or TV show.**

* * *

BOOK ONE

Chapter VI

* * *

"I... I don't remember what happened," Neville was murmuring, sounding very confused.

Harry hesitated at the half-closed door of the infirmary to listen.

"What do you remember?" Madam Pomfrey asked kindly, licking the tip of her finger before turning the page of her book.

Neville started to shake his head and stopped with a wince of pain.

"Nothing," he whispered, twining his fingers nervously. "I don't even know how I got here, to Hogwarts. I was... on the train, I think, and then everything just goes black." He gulped. "Why can't I remember?"

"It's all right, Neville," Madam Pomfrey said briskly, snapping her book closed. "You had a fall and got a rather bad concussion. It isn't uncommon for head injuries to cause temporary amnesia. You'll be fine."

Harry pushed open the door softly.

"Madam Pomfrey?"

She glanced up and nodded to him, rising to her feet.

"It looks like you have a visitor," she told Neville cheerily.

Neville swallowed. Madam Pomfrey touched Harry's shoulder on her way out.

"Don't upset him," she murmured sternly. "I'll be back in five minutes."

Harry stared at Neville with some apprehension.

"Excuse me," said Neville quickly, shifting under the thin sheets. "Who are you? I'm sorry, I don't remember anything."

Harry forced a smile and sat down on the chair Madam Pomfrey had just vacated. He reached out and grasped Neville's hand.

"I'm Harry."

Neville smiled a very, very little and shook his hand.

"Neville Longbottom. But you already knew that, I guess."

Harry laughed uncomfortably and ran his hands through his hair.

"Um... yeah. Yeah, I knew that."

An awkward silence followed.

"Can you tell me what happened?" Neville asked, fiddling with the corner of his blanket. "The nurse thinks I oughtn't to know, but I'd like to."

"Okay," said Harry, thinking uneasily that he was starting off their real acquaintance with lies. "From what I've heard – I wasn't... there because I'm in Slytherin and you're in Gryffindor – you fell down a flight of stairs in the dorm and got knocked up pretty bad."

"What month is it?"

"It's March," Harry told him.

Neville winced.

"I'm missing about half a year's worth of memories, then." His eyes widened and he sat up straighter. "I'm missing practically all of my first year! I don't remember any of the classes!"

Harry shrugged.

"It's all right. I'm sure you'll be able to catch up. We didn't do anything too difficult."

"I don't know," said Neville, grimacing. "I've never been too great with books or spells."

"Neville," Harry started, picking his words carefully, "there's just one thing I need to know. You can't remember anything? Nothing at all about what happened between the train and now?"

Neville seemed confused by his solemnity.

"Um... No. No, I can't."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am," Neville insisted. "What's so important about it, anyway?"

"Nothing really," said Harry. He cleared his throat and rose. "Well, I've got to go, Neville. I'll come back soon."

* * *

It was weird to hear the story of Neville's "accident" from Ron's point of view.

"I was going to bed after my expedition in the woods with Hagrid," Ron was telling a group of awed students in the library. He had become quite a celebrity, having been first on the scene. "And I started up the stairs and I saw him lying on the ground with his head all bloody and smashed in, with a broken wrist and everything! So of course I brought him to Madam Pomfrey's and she said that he'd gotten a fractured skull..."

"It was just a concussion," Harry muttered from his spot on the sidelines.

Ron looked indignant but did not reply.

"Anyway," he continued, "now he's lost his memory and he'll be stuck in the infirmary for several days."

After the crowd had dispersed with a few lingering, admiring looks at Ron, Harry poked his shoulder.

"I never asked," he said. "How _was_ your 'expedition in the woods'?"

Ron shrugged and scratched his ear absently.

"It turned out to be okay. Nothing much happened, but it was awfully dark. Hey, Harry, can you show me that essay Hermione corrected for you? She said I need to figure out how to do my homework on my own."

"I'm not sure this is what she meant," Harry said doubtfully, nonetheless digging inside his bag for the scroll.

"Oh, it's all right," said Ron airily, taking it with a wave of thanks and starting to compare it with his own. "Have you gotten anywhere with Snape and his intended quarry?"

"Not really," Harry replied, staring drearily at the fat raindrops sliding rapidly down the misty windows. It was very grey and very cold, and Mrs. Weasley's sweater was coming in handy, although Harry was beginning to see what Ron meant when he said it was scratchy. "I don't know where to keep looking, and to tell the truth there's really nothing left to be found. He isn't trying anything as of yet so I can't catch him in the act. I'm sort of at a standstill."

"Well, I have news," Ron informed him, rather proudly. He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Dumbledore's gone to a meeting in London. If Snape tries anything, now is the perfect time."

"What can we do about it?" Harry asked, lapsing in languor again.

"I don't know. The problem is that all the professors trust him, so they won't suspect him. He'll even know how to get past Fluffy because, although he and Hagrid don't talk much, Hagrid basically just told him how."

"You think he was the dragon egg man?"

"I didn't say that," Ron protested. "And no, I don't think so. Maybe one of his..." he looked around furtively, " _henchmen_. Hagrid probably would have recognized his voice. I would have; I have nightmares about it. Anyway, I think it's our duty to protect the stone."

Harry was beginning to have serious doubts about the whole business.

"To tell you the truth," he said slowly, "I'm not sure if we're even right about this. We've never seen the Philosopher's Stone nor the contents of the package, so how do we know they're the same?"

"We don't," Ron replied, sounding frustrated. "But we can't just leave it to be stolen. We can at least check on it."

"Ron, we'd also have to get past Fluffy and all the other horrors the professors have set up to protect the mystery package. Snape is a much more skilled wizard than either of us, so for him it's much easier."

The rest of the students were starting to move about, picking up their books and bags, and Harry glanced at the clock. It was very old and the wood was starting to crack, and it was about thirteen minutes slow. He calculated the time quickly.

"Let's go. We don't want to miss dinner."

"Sounds good," said Ron, hopping off his perch. "Listen, I'll collect Hermione and we'll meet you on the third floor tonight."

* * *

It wasn't until Harry had already left his dorm that he realized he had never told his friends about the invisibility cloak. Ron was talking to Hermione in a low voice when he crept up.

"Hey!" he hissed.

Ron gave a squeak of fright and must have jumped a mile. Even Hermione looked flustered. Harry uncovered his head, grinning widely.

"What on earth..." Ron spluttered. "How did you... you're _headless_ , just... just... the other way round!"

"I'm a specter," Harry told him wisely. "The specter of the head of Harry Potter."

Hermione reached out and blindly grabbed hold of the cloak.

"It's an invisibility cloak," she whispered excitedly, fingering the invisible material. "Harry, you never said you had one of those!"

Harry folded the cloak neatly.

"I forgot," he said calmly.

"You forgot," Ron echoed in disbelief. "You _forgot_!"

He shook his head incredulously. Hermione was still admiring the shimmery cloth in Harry's hands. She stroked it.

"It's so silky. I didn't think they... but come on. We can't waste time."

The door was unlocked, but they didn't think to question that, instead slipping in quietly in a single file. Fluffy was snoring and snuffling loudly, rolled over on his back, his legs splayed out every which way. He was displaced several feet from his prior position, and so now they saw the trapdoor.

The door itself was askew. It had been sloppily replaced by whoever was now exploring the depths below. It was strange to see physical evidence of another's presence; up until now they had always assumed that Snape was planning on stealing the stone, but they had never really thought of confronting him.

"Fluffy's asleep," Harry murmured unnecessarily, rubbing the smooth wood of his flute with his thumb. "Are you both sure we should do this?"

The vehement (but carefully quiet) affirmatives that followed decided that, and Harry hoisted up the trapdoor for Ron and Hermione. It squeaked and grated against the floor, and more than once he stopped to gaze back at the three-headed dog, which continued to slumber peacefully.

They ended up in a pile of what felt like a knotty plant. It was very difficult to find his bearings, and to figure out in what direction he was pointing. When he tried to move, he found he couldn't. Long, curling strands of a vine or stalk were wrapping around him, gripping tighter and tighter as he fought to get out. From the scuffling sounds nearby, Ron was trying to do the same thing.

"Stop," Hermione cried, her voice echoing weirdly in the empty darkness. "Don't move! It's a Devil's Snare!"

Harry froze, but Ron still thrashed about frantically.

"How does the knowledge that it's called a Devil's Snare _help_ us?!"

"Stop moving, Ron!" Hermione snapped, more harshly than she'd probably intended. "The more you move, the tighter it closes around you. So stay as still as possible."

It was very silent when Ron did as he was told.

"I don't think we're doing much good here," Harry said finally, giving in and wriggling just a little. The plant started to swell around him and he quickly relaxed.

"I'm thinking, Harry, and you're not much help," said Hermione, somehow still primly in spite of her compromised position. "Listen, all we can do is give it time. Eventually it'll think we're dead and it'll let us go. So don't move a muscle."

At first it didn't feel like anything was happening. It was horrible, to sit in the dark with deadly coils wrapped around one's ribs and neck, and to know that a single movement might end up being one's death sentence. But then Harry began to feel the knots loosen, and then start to slowly push him under.

"What's happening?" he whispered.

"Don't move," Hermione hissed. "It's dropping us underneath. Let it pull away entirely... Now!"

They all three leapt blindly forward, bumping into each other as they landed.

" _Lumos_!" Hermione gasped. She spun around wildly. "There, a door! Hurry up or it'll catch us again!"

The door slammed behind them not a moment too soon; they heard a huge crash against the heavy wood as the plant continued its endeavors to trap them.

It was much calmer in this room. All around them were small objects with wings, fluttering and careening wildly around the room. On the other side of the room, there was a door. Harry walked across, almost expecting the little things to start attacking him, and drew a breath of relief when his hand closed around the door handle and nothing happened.

Nothing did happen. It was locked.

" _Alohomora_ ," he said, not quite believing his luck.

He tried it again. It was still locked.

"Let me try," said Hermione, pushing herself forward.

It didn't open for either of them, and Ron didn't even try.

"This is just perfect," he grumbled. "How are we supposed to keep going?"

"It has something to do with these little flying things," Harry said, staring upwards curiously. "I think they're keys."

"Oh, really?" Ron said sarcastically, rubbing at a welt on his arm. "And which one is the right one? If each one is a key, there are billions of them and we're never going to find the right one, so we'll be stuck down here forever, trapped between a murderous, man-eating plant and a stupid locked door. What an ignominious end."

"Oh, don't be such a defeatist," said Hermione. "We just need to look at the lock. The door's old and sort of embellished, so I'm willing to bet –well, I'm not, but that's hardly the point – the key is old-fashioned. Big, too, judging from the keyhole."

"There's a broom in the corner over there," Harry observed. "Which of us should go? I'm not very good with brooms."

"I suppose I could," Ron sighed. "Hopefully I don't fall and break my neck. Just one more miserable thing to add to the very long list of miserable things that have been happening to me lately."

He mounted the broom and rose a decent distance in the air.

"All right, then," he called, glancing downwards and quickly looking back up again with a shiver. "What am I looking for again?"

"A large, old key," Hermione shouted. "And hurry! We haven't much time if Snape got here before us."

"There's one with a crushed wing," Ron yelled some time later. "It's probably already been caught. It looks right. I'm going to get it."

He whizzed towards it and snatched at it, but came away with only air. The winged key had danced several feet away at lightning speed. It was clearly not going to be an easy task.

Ron carefully ignored the key and moved slowly in its general direction before lunging for it. It wasn't fooled. Ron nearly lost his balance.

"What do I do?"

"You'll have to chase it."

Ron gathered himself up and zoomed forward, slowly but surely gaining on the key.

"Ron, look out!" Hermione shrieked, but it was too late. Ron tumbled head over heels off the broomstick and landed heavily on the ground.

They both rushed over.

"Ron, you all right?"

Ron gave a very faint groan and rolled over. He opened his cupped hands to reveal the key. Both wings were crumpled now, and it was hovering very weakly over his palm. He grinned woozily.

"Told you I'd get it."

Harry helped him up.

"Good job. How's your head? You landed pretty hard."

Ron blinked.

"Okay," he slurred. "I'm okay. Jushhhht... a little... dizzy."

"Oh, no," sighed Hermione. "This is not good."

"Open the door," Harry told her, trying to support Ron, who was a lot heavier than he looked with his lean frame.

The key fit. The door swung open, and they were met with a large expanse of alternating black and white squares.

"Tell you a shhh... ecret," Ron said to Harry in a loud whisper. "That's a chess board."

"Oh," said Harry. "Thanks."

He stepped out on the first black square, and two human-sized chess pieces blocked his way. He stared at them uncertainly.

"I don't think they're going to let us go past," said Hermione.

"We have to go, though."

"What about Ron? He won't make it through," Hermione argued.

Harry stared at the chess pieces. They stared back forbiddingly and stepped closer together.

"Tell you what," said Harry, slinging one of Ron's arms over Hermione's shoulders and slipping from under the other. "I'll keep going. You stay here. I don't think they'll attack if you don't go across."

"But they'll try to hurt you," Hermione protested, staggering a little as Ron sagged some more.

"I'll be fine," said Harry, waving his hand dismissively. "Just keep Ron out of trouble."

He ducked under the arms of the two chess pieces without a word of warning, and he just missed being decapitated as the sharp whiz of a sword swept over his head. He threw himself forward, dodging as many pieces as he could, and they followed him, moving in their respective patterns, but quickly all the same. A knight nearly trampled on him as he dived for cover on the other end of the board. The pieces evidently could not leave the board, because they just gazed at him with wooden eyes as he wiped the sweat from his brow and continued onwards.

It was a relief to open the next door and find an unconscious troll rather than a vicious troll, ready and swinging its club (he was only half grateful because, well, whoever had vanquished it was his sworn enemy at the moment).

He stepped into the next room and immediately a mass of purple flames flared behind him. He flinched away, his eyes flicking over them fearfully.

When he turned, he saw the final obstacle. At least, he figured it was final because he'd counted the number of obstacles so far, and there was only one respective teacher left, and that one teacher was Snape.

It was a table with a row of potion bottles on it. There was a thin scrap of paper lying beside them. He walked over and picked it up, careful not to touch the bottles.

It was a riddle.

" _Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,_

 _Two of us will help you, whichever you would find,_

 _One among us seven will let you move ahead,_

 _Another will transport the drinker back instead,_

 _Two among our number hold only nettle wine,_

 _Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line._

 _Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore,_

 _To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:_

 _First, however slyly the poison tries to hide_

 _You will always find some on nettle wine's left side;_

 _Second, different are those who stand at either end,_

 _But if you would move onward, neither is your friend;_

 _Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,_

 _Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;_

 _Fourth, the second left and the second on the right_

 _Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight._ "

He frowned after he'd read it. This wasn't really an obstacle; it was a puzzle. And if solved incorrectly, it would prove to be a deadly puzzle. If Snape was already inside, however, he would have used a little of the "onward" potion (and of course for him the riddle wouldn't have been a problem) and so the bottle would be partly empty.

Harry replaced the paper and examined the bottles carefully. The third from the left looked partially depleted, so he picked it up warily. It was a clear, pale blue. He hesitated, not really wanting to try it without some assurance that it was the correct choice.

The left-most bottle couldn't be nettle wine because there was nothing to its left and according to the riddle, there was always poison directly to the left of wine. The "onward" potion was, he assumed, third from left (so fourth from left was not nettle wine) and it also was the smallest, so that scratched out the dwarf part. The largest bottle was second from right, and so it couldn't be poison, but it couldn't be either onward or backward because it was twins with the second from left and there were no doubles for onward or backward.

That meant that both the second from left and the second from right were nettle wine, which meant the first on left and third from right were poison. The right most bottle was the backwards potion because neither end bottles were onward bottles and it had to be different from poison but both nettle wines were already found. That meant that the fourth from left was poison as well.

Which accounted for everything. He stared at the line-up apprehensively and swallowed the remainder of the "onward" potion in one quick gulp. He waited for several seconds with bated breath, half expecting to drop dead, but to his immense relief nothing happened. Then he plunged through the flames.

The first thought that popped into his head as he took in the scene before him was _It's not Snape!_ and then he had to sort out his mind frantically to deal with the new and admittedly shocking turn of events.

"Professor Quirrell," said Harry, his head spinning. "What are you doing?"

Quirrell had been there every single time the headaches had started, and Harry hadn't even noticed because he'd been so focused on Snape's dislike of him. It had been a stupid, _stupid_ , blind mistake.

Quirrell tore his gaze away from the mirror before him, his turban perched rather sloppily on his head. He smiled.

"Ah, Harry! Just the person I wanted to see! Tell me, how did you get past Severus' little trick? I made sure to leave you some. My master wanted to meet you."

"You're the one," Harry murmured. He pressed his fingers to his temple, his head pounding. "You've been the one the whole time."

Quirrell shrugged.

"It appears so, doesn't it?" he said brightly. "I don't think…"

He was cut off by a third voice. It was a cold voice, smooth and duplicitous, and it was difficult to tell from where it came.

"Enough with the pleasantries, Quirrell."

Quirrell flinched and took a step away from Harry.

"Yes, m… master," he stuttered, cowed once more.

"Unveil me."

Quirrell started to scrabble at the bindings of his turban, his hands white and trembling. With dread growing in the pit of his stomach, Harry watched as he pulled it off.

The very first thing he noticed was that Quirrell was bald, and then he marveled at himself for observing such a trivial piece of information. Quirrell turned, still trembling a little, and Harry looked on Voldemort for the second time of his life.

The Dark Lord was no more than a face on the back of Quirrell's head, but if his face already looked like this, Harry had no trouble understanding the terror of those who looked upon his whole figure. It was white and misshapen, and gleaming red eyes peered from under a high brow.

"What are you doing here?" Harry blurted out, breaking the silence only to calm his nerves. Voldemort remained annoyingly unshaken.

"What you have suspected all along."

"Why did I need to come?" Harry asked, wiping his sweaty palm against his pants.

Voldemort must have made some silent cue, because Quirrell turned again and grabbed Harry's arm. Harry would have pulled away, but, while frightened, he was curious, so he let himself be led in front of the Mirror of Erised (at least that was what he told himself; he didn't really have a choice).

Again, he saw nothing at all besides Quirrell staring at him with alarmed eyes.

"There's nothing," Harry said, quietly. "I didn't see anything last time I looked in this mirror, and I still don't. I don't know what you intended for me to do, but I can't."

"You lie!"

Quirrell flicked his wand with a muttered spell. A beam of red light shot out and Harry was only just able to dive out of the way, his heart pounding. He scrambled away.

"You're lying!" Quirrell screamed again.

"I'm not!" Harry gasped, holding up a placating hand. "I'm not, I swear!"

Quirrell threw another spell at him. Harry ducked, and it bounced off the reflective glass of the mirror, ricocheting back and slamming into Quirrell's chest. His head snapped forward. Harry caught a glimpse of his shocked expression as he was thrown back into the wall with a heavy thud and a snippet of grey ghosted from his lips, disappearing into thin air.

Voldemort was gone.

Harry stared at the spot where he had vanished. He could feel the tremors beginning, spreading from his core until his whole body was trembling.

He remembered Quirrell suddenly. The former professor was slumped against the wall, his back bent at an odd angle. His eyes were wide open but glazed over.

Harry couldn't help it. He sank onto his hands and knees and vomited. It tasted horrible and he couldn't breathe. Quirrell's eyes just kept staring at him, and staring at him, and when he finally stopped, feeling weak and sick, he staggered to his feet and walked through the flames, unable to stand another moment in the room.

* * *

Madam Pomfrey promptly put him to bed in the infirmary. Neville eyed him curiously until she had gone, and then he spoke up.

"What happened to you?"

Harry groaned and turned over.

"I got into a fight," he mumbled, feeling very miserable and still queasy. One of the teachers had gone to retrieve the body already. He hadn't been able to give them many details.

"No kidding," said Neville, sounding surprised.

"How's your head?" Harry asked, just to change the subject.

Neville pursed his lips, suddenly downcast.

"It's getting better," he sighed. "At least it doesn't hurt anymore." He paused, and added slowly, "You know, you asked me before if I remembered anything. I didn't then... but now something is coming back to me."

Harry perked up a little, his interest peaked. He turned back to face the other boy, sitting up straighter.

"What is it?"

Neville frowned.

"You have to understand," he said quickly, "I think this is complete rot, but I heard... well, I _thought_ I heard this voice… this _horrid_ voice talking to someone. They said something about a plan. Something to do with their leader... a lord. You see why it must have been my imagination?"

Harry was silent for a little.

"Yes," he said finally. "Yes, I see why. Don't worry about it, Neville. I'm sure it was nothing."

Neville shrugged.

"I couldn't make much sense of it," he admitted. "It was probably a nightmare." He gave Harry a slight smile. It faded quickly. "But I have a bad feeling about it, you know?"

Harry happened to have a _very_ bad feeling about it, but he disguised it well with a cheery grin.

"I bet you just had too much dinner," he joked, pulling the covers around himself. "Go to sleep. I'm exhausted, anyway."

"All right. G'night, Harry."

"'Night, Neville."

* * *

Harry was woken very unpleasantly by a loud, terrified scream. He jolted up.

"Hermione?" he exclaimed, his voice still groggy from sleep. Her hand was frozen on the lamp switch. The light was on, blazing brightly overhead. Harry blinked, and looked towards Neville's bed, his sluggish mind unable to process what was happening.

He sprang to his feet with a choked yell. Neville was staring up at the ceiling with blank, empty eyes. His throat was slashed open and dark, clotted blood saturated his pillow, his sheets, still dripping languidly into a wet puddle on the floor.

Harry couldn't breathe. He couldn't. His eyes seemed glued to the slow drops that splattered one by one from Neville's cold, limp fingertips into the congealing pool.

Hermione's strangled breathing reminded him of her presence. He spun around, grabbing her and turning her face away. She was still clearly in a state of shock as he led her out.

Madam Pomfrey met them in the passage.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Harry motioned towards the door wordlessly, still struggling to maintain his composure. The nurse stalked in, and a moment later he heard her horrified gasp. He turned his full attention to his friend.

"Hermione," he said shakily. "Hermione, look at me. Hermione!"

He gripped her shoulders and shook them, much harder than he'd intended.

"Hermione! Stop it!"

"He's dead," Hermione said, highly and disbelievingly. "He's dead." Her voice cracked. "He's dead, Harry. His throat was slit."

She turned to face him wildly.

"What is this?" she cried. "What's happening? I... I..."

Her face twisted and suddenly she was sobbing. More people were gathering in the corridor, some asking questions and others peering curiously and obliviously at the half-opened door of the infirmary. Harry could barely think.

 _They said something about a plan._

* * *

 **I'm sorry about Neville, everyone. I like him, I really do... but it was necessary.** **On a different note, the school year is starting soon (as most of you well know). The chapters will probably not come in as often anymore, but I'll still be working on this. Just a warning.**

 **Reviews – especially constructive criticism – are always very much appreciated! Thank you!**


	7. Chapter 7

**ATTENTION ALL READERS. THIS IS EXTREMELY IMPORTANT. I will be changing this story's name from _Vessel_ to _A Fork in the Road_ in approximately two weeks. I have made this decision after some thought and the realization that its original title doesn't have much to do with the plot (To be honest, when I had the idea to write this I just threw out the first name I could think of. I'm terrible at picking relevant titles). So please don't unfollow/unfavorite if you suddenly see a story you don't remember adding to your list.**

 **Thank you to all my delightful reviewers!**

 **Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me except for parts of the story line and my little twists. Things you recognize are probably from the books or TV show.**

* * *

BOOK ONE

Chapter VII

* * *

The make-shift infirmary (neither Harry nor Madam Pomfrey had felt at all inclined to stay in the old one) seemed particularly empty at night without Neville. Harry turned over and tried to fall asleep. It was uncomfortably hot. Turning again, he flung his hand restlessly over the edge of the bed and jumped when it came into contact with something wet.

He switched on the lamp with trembling fingers and almost screamed. Neville's vacant eyes stared up at him, his face still spattered with blood.

Harry jolted awake, bundled in blankets and dripping sweat. He drew a shaky breath.

Every single night of the week that had passed since Neville's death, he had had the same dream. Darkness, heat, blood. It never got any easier.

He kicked off his blanket and padded towards the common room in his pajamas, feeling rather desperate for human company. It was early morning, so barely anyone was awake yet, but he figured he stood a better chance of finding someone if he was out and about.

The only occupant of the common room turned out to be the one person in all of Hogwarts that he wanted least to see. Harry halted short at the doorway and almost decided to leave, but he had already been seen. Draco lounged back, lacing his fingers behind his head lazily.

"Don't let me scare you away," he drawled.

Flushing, Harry stalked to the further end of the room without a word. He stared stiffly at the dancing flames of the fire, acutely aware of Draco's presence and wishing he hadn't left his room after all. The coach creaked protestingly as Draco stood and sauntered nearer. He leaned casually on the back of Harry's chair.

"So," he started nonchalantly. "How are you holding up?"

Harry resisted the urge to turn around.

"Fine," he said shortly.

"Must have been a shock."

Harry pursed his lips, thinking it a silly comment.

"Do you think I wake up every morning expecting to see a murder scene?" he asked icily. "Of course it was a shock."

Draco circled around to stand in front of him and Harry heaved an internal sigh of relief. He didn't like having people in his blind spot.

"Well, I didn't know." Draco shrugged while Harry eyed him suspiciously. This touchy-feely act was setting off a warning bell in his head. "You're the Boy Who Lived."

Harry raised an eyebrow with careful disinterest.

"And that is relevant in what way?"

Draco looked far too gleeful for it to mean anything good whatsoever.

"I thought you might be used to it," he said, still casually. "I mean, you already woke up to your parents. How'd your mum look? Cold? Blue-lipped? Wide, staring eyes?"

Harry felt a surge of fury even as the image of Neville's _wide, staring eyes_ rose to the top of his mind.

"Why do you hate me, Malfoy?" he bit out. Because that was what this was really about. Not Neville... not Lily. He felt a childish urge to kick Malfoy's shins.

"It's not you, it's me," Draco said, in sing-song. Then he glared at Harry. "Take a guess. Maybe because you should have been put in Gryffindor like both your stupid parents? I could have taken this, though, but for some reason you're still trying to be like them. You live a Gryffindor life, Potter, you're even friends with a mudblood. You don't belong here."

At a loss for words (he wasn't sure if it was anger at the insult to Hermione, or shock that Draco was stooping to petty house rivalries, or a mixture of both), Harry simply stared at him. Draco looked disgustingly smug.

"It's better than having feelings of inadequacy and making up for them by being your father's little puppet."

Margaret's voice held a particularly sneering note as she glided smoothly into the room. Harry shot her a warning glance, but she predictably ignored it and threw herself onto the couch next to them. She twirled a single lock of dark hair around her finger thoughtfully and watched Draco's face – which was turning a variety of different colors as he struggled for words – with narrow, calculating eyes.

"How about if you go now?" suggested Margaret, with a hint of steel in her tone.

Draco looked murderous, but she evidently held a higher position in the Slytherin family circle because he retreated... if not from the room, at least into silence. Harry stood rigidly and gazed into the fire. If anything, he felt worse than before.

Margaret's feet were swinging gently, in the corner of his eye. She hummed for a while tunelessly, and then jumped to her feet, tossing her hair over her shoulder. The storm had apparently passed and her face was bright and cheery.

"If you're ready in five minutes, I'll wait for you to go up," she told him, and spun around without waiting for an answer, her green-trimmed robes swirling around her.

Bemused, Harry returned to his room. The warm spring air had penetrated even the thick stone walls of Hogwarts, so he put away Mrs. Weasley's sweater in favor of lighter wear. As he dressed, he began mentally to review his spells and history dates.

Finals were coming up in less than a week. Ron was having a horrible time, which wasn't surprising considering the majority of his homework he had copied from Harry, who had copied a little of his from Hermione, who of course hadn't copied but had done about ten times the amount required.

Harry felt ready. He had only had trouble with the dates ( _when did Augustus Nizelus first discover the gurbagoot nest?_ and _on what day did the Battle of Worcester Bowl end and which side won?_ ) but after several nights in the library he had gotten quite a handle on it. He never liked to stay too late in the library now, though, because ever since Neville's death he'd been experiencing something akin to acute paranoia.

That Neville had been murdered by a demon he had no doubt. He never left the dorms without holy water and salt tucked away in his pocket. That was because the day after it happened, he'd forgotten them and very nearly had a severe panic attack in the middle of the crowded hallways. Fortunately he had been right outside the Great Hall, so he was able to go back and take some salt... or more like a whole salt shaker. Any of his past compunctions with regards to stealing from the dining tables were discarded without further deliberation.

Every time a student ducked his or her head (suspiciously, he thought) while passing him, he muttered " _Christo_ " and waited with bated breath until he was sure that no one's eyes had turned black. He jumped at the slightest noise and constantly gripped an exorcism in one pocketed hand, as if the written words would somehow protect him. Hermione had noticed quickly that something was wrong, but when she'd asked about it he had lied and said that it was only the stress of the upcoming finals.

"That was ten minutes," said Margaret when he met her in the common room.

Harry straightened his collar self-consciously with his exorcism-free hand.

"Sorry."

* * *

Finals week passed in a blur of tests and cramming and general pandemonium. Harry did relatively well (except of course for Potions, where Snape again made him feel as if he was personally responsible for all the evil in the world) but it was with a sigh of relief and a feeling of freedom that he disembarked from the Hogwarts Express. He could almost visualize the three beautiful months of school-free summer waiting to welcome him back with open arms.

His elation was quickly shattered when he saw Uncle Vernon on the platform, surrounded by jabbering witches and wizards with a disapproving and fearful expression on his pudgy, bloated face. Harry sighed and hoisted Hedwig's cage higher on his shoulder, bracing himself for a snide opening remark.

On the other hand, it might prove to be a very long summer indeed.

* * *

"Harry!"

At the all too familiar screech, Harry woke with a start and tumbled off his cot. He scrambled for his glasses and crammed them on his face, throwing an apologetic look at Hedwig, who shot him a ruffled, sleepy look.

"Coming, Aunt Petunia!"

He sprinted downstairs, still trying to tie his shoe, and mentally berating himself for not waking up earlier. He'd gotten lax over the school year and was now trying to smack himself back into shape (with some help from his aunt), but his lack of success was evidenced by the constant shouts that reigned the indoors of the Dursley residence. Petunia looked very sour by the time he reached the kitchen.

"I'm sorry," Harry said breathlessly, hurrying to the cabinet for a pan.

His aunt didn't often – ever – accept excuses, so he didn't bother giving her one.

"It's late," she informed him, irritably.

"I know."

He grabbed several eggs from the refrigerator and began to crack them sloppily. Petunia retreated without a word. Ever since he'd come back, the Dursleys had seemed even more fearful of him, possibly because of his official magical training. While it was pleasant to have his own room (albeit a small one), it wasn't nice to feel even more like a freak than before.

At least he was able to eat with them... after Dudley of course. As if in answer to his unspoken thought, the eggs sizzled in the pan. He sniffed them hungrily.

Today was going to be one of the better days as all of _them_ were going to London. He was staying home to do housework. He wasn't worried at all about that because he'd become something of an expert at getting things done in record time. Any extra time he had he would spend mulling over the newest information on supernatural beings that he'd gathered.

It had struck him one day soon after coming back to Privet Drive that, if demons were real, an expansive and admittedly horrifying paranormal world might be real as well. It wasn't one of those things about which you could find reliable information in the library, so he mostly tried to gather as many generally accepted facts on killing and repelling things that he could find on the internet.

Dudley had a really old, beaten-up, forgotten computer stowed in the attic. Harry hid it under his bed and took it out when he was sure no one was home. He had to coax it a good deal to make it work, and even then the internet connection was terrible. But he managed.

He knew that ghosts were real, of course, but when he'd searched for "ghost killings" – simply out of curiosity and to see whether all those creepy bedtime stories were true – a surprising number of results came up. Most were useless and obviously fake, but in the few that he thought were authentic articles and worth reading he found several common factors.

The witnesses all said that they had felt weird cold chills before the attacks. He knew the ghosts at Hogwarts didn't do that, and neither were they aggressive... aside from Peeves, but he was a poltergeist so he didn't really count. He also couldn't remember ever seeing one actually interact with a physical object; they always passed through it. However, if people were being wounded or killed, the ghost must have some connection to the physical world.

It was puzzling. He wished he could ask someone about it, but he was sure they would either laugh at him or think he was crazy.

He kept researching. When he came upon the idea of using salt as a repellant, he jotted it down in the little notebook he was keeping to document his supernatural encounters. At the moment, it ran like this:

 _Demons:_

 _-Use salt and holy water as repellants_

 _-Exorcise_

And he had written the exorcism. Now he wrote:

 _Ghosts (?):_

 _-Use salt as repellant_

 _-Other?_

He disregarded some of the more outlandish ideas, like a silver dagger dipped thrice in the blood of a rabbit killed on a full moon, but salt sounded more plausible. He still religiously carried it around, along with holy water, but the utter normalcy of Privet Drive was starting to chip away at the fear that had been so deeply instilled in him at Hogwarts. So he didn't panic as much as he might have when he found himself in the garden weeding with pocketless trousers.

Only a few days ago, he'd found a ghost investigation in progress (at least so he assumed as it didn't seem to have reached any conclusion yet). That was interesting enough. But what made it even better was the fact that it was only about a mile away... a twenty minute walk, if he hurried. Of course he was going to check it out.

He didn't have much by way of protection, but he assumed that, after dealing with a demon, a ghost wouldn't be too difficult. Besides, he wasn't exactly sure if they really did exist. There just seemed to be a lot of coincidences, and he knew that oftentimes coincidences weren't even really coincidences. It wouldn't do any harm to take a peek.

While it would have been ideal to go during the day, he opted for night because it gave him more time and there would be less questions to answer. The supposedly haunted house was several streets away and it had been a favorite meeting place for Dudley's gang until a girl had hanged herself from the bannister several years ago. After that they hadn't been so keen on meeting there.

Now it was empty, the For Sale sign one of the neighborhood constants, and everyone agreed that it was, and well to be capitalized, a Disgrace.

Harry wasn't so sure of the soundness of his idea when he came up to the boarded house. The roof was sagging badly, and so were several of the steps that led to the front porch. Uneasily, he placed one foot on the lowest of these, pulling it back quickly as the rotting wood gave a protesting squeak.

This posed a problem.

The back of the house was pretty bad as well, but not quite so much as the front. He had to clamber over a wire fence, tearing his pants in the process. He suppressed a groan as he eyed the gaping tear. Aunt Petunia would be livid.

Fumbling for his flashlight (he'd spent four pence buying it at a liquor store), he pushed the back door open. It squeaked loudly and promptly crashed off its hinges. Startled, Harry jumped back, losing his balance and tumbling to the ground, his flashlight rolling wildly and casting its beam every which way.

When he looked up, he found himself staring down the long barrel of a shotgun.

"Who are you?"

Frightened half out of his wits, Harry gaped at the man who held it, and then back down at the shotgun, which was still being held motionless inches away from his head.

"P... please don't shoot!"

He threw up his arms for good measure and the bag of salt fell out of his pocket. The man shot it an odd look.

"Is that salt?"

Relieved that he didn't appear to be dying quite yet, Harry lowered his arms a little.

"Umm... yes. Yes, that's salt."

The man seemed to size him up sharply.

"They come awfully young these days," he muttered, his taut fingers relaxing on the trigger. Harry released a long, shaky breath. "You're a hunter?"

"What's a hunter?"

The man looked horrified, although the gun was withdrawn entirely.

"Oh, no. Not one of _you_!"

"One of me?"

Completely bewildered, Harry was dragged to his feet by the man, who looked annoyed and impatient.

"Next time go play your games somewhere else," he grumbled, pushing Harry towards the fence. "And tell your friends – or whoever dared you – that they're bloody idiots."

"I wasn't dared," Harry interjected indignantly. Did he think he'd come here for fun? But when Harry looked his scruffy, oversized pants and baggy shirt, he couldn't help seeing the man's point of view. But that didn't change the fact that Harry was here on business. "I came here to check out the ghost that's been terrorizing everyone who visits."

The man paused in his tracks.

"So... you _are_ a hunter?"

It was that word again.

"I don't know what you mean by hunter," Harry admitted, scratching his head (it was funny how often people actually did do that when they felt confused), "but if that means someone who hunts ghosts, I suppose... yes, I am."

"How old are you?"

"I'm eleven."

"Ele..."

"Almost twelve," Harry added quickly.

"I'm stuck with a kid who wants to play hero," the man sighed, pressing his forehead wearily. "I'm getting too old for this. What's your name?"

He didn't look that old. He looked rather young actually, with a full head of light brown hair and shrewd bleached blue eyes. His dark blue jeans and military jacket both looked old and shabby and very well-worn. Harry blinked as he realized he'd been staring.

"Harry. I'm not a kid," he felt compelled to state. "Well," he thought about it a bit, "I guess I am, but that's beside the point. I did my research. I only found salt to keep whatever's here away, but I figure I have a better chance of doing that than those people who come in for a cheap scare."

The man gave him another one of those odd looks, and then grudgingly held out a hand.

"I'm Victor Weismann."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Weismann."

"Victor."

"What?"

"Don't call me Mr. Weismann. Makes me sound like some doddering old professor."

"Oh. Sorry... I guess."

Victor seemed resigned to his presence. He grabbed a bag (Harry hadn't noticed it before; it was big and bulging, and made a heavy clanging sound when he picked it up) and headed through the door without a word. Harry followed, a little nervously as many of the wooden boards were cracked or even missing.

"Is this your first hunt?"

Victor seemed relaxed, although there was something in his step that suggested he could spring into action at any moment. Harry tried his best to follow his example, but every creak, rattle, and bang that shook the house sent shivers down his spine.

"Yes," he replied, deciding that "hunter," "hunt," and "hunting" were the assigned terms for this particular type of insanity. By whom they were assigned, however, he had no idea.

"And you're alone," Victor stated, with a certain air of exaggerated patience.

"Well, I didn't think anyone would believe me."

Victor nodded.

"A common enough predicament."

He pushed open the door and slowly but thoroughly checked every nook and cranny, gun at ready.

"Why do you have a gun?" Harry asked, determined to get as much as he could out of this most interesting character before they parted ways.

"Because I'm hunting a vengeful spirit and I'm not exactly eager to intentionally allow harm to my person."

"That's not what I meant." What _was_ it with this guy and his dry sarcasm? "Do guns work on ghosts? I thought only salt did anything."

"First," said Victor, suddenly turning and startling Harry, "Let's get one thing straight. Stop calling them," he made air quotes, "'ghosts.' Call them spirits, or vengeful spirits, if only for the preservation of my self-respect. Only babies hunt 'ghosts.' And second, this isn't loaded with bullets, although I wouldn't have minded your thinking so. I filled the cartridges with rock salt."

"All right," said Harry, shrugging. There was no use arguing with him.

"All right, then."

Victor set up camp in the next room – if there was anything Harry had learned about his companion during their brief acquaintance, it was that he liked to expend as little energy as possible – which consisted of a circle of salt with the weapons bag, an "EMF detector" (some device that tracked ghost... no, _spirit_ activity), and themselves in the middle.

At least two hours passed and nothing happened. Harry started to fidget in his place.

"How long does it usually take?" he asked finally.

Victor blew a long, whistling breath.

"Spirits don't run by a clock. For all we know, it's watching us right now. Nothing about this is predictable. We'll just have to wait."

"My aunt will find out if I'm not back tomorrow morning," Harry told him, a little anxiously.

"Harry," said Victor, "if you have an aunt and a curfew, I would suggest that you not take up hunting. It isn't a family-oriented activity."

This time it was Harry's turn to give him an odd look.

"I'm not worried about a curfew," he explained. "I need to be back in time to make breakfast and clean the house."

Somehow even Victor's sigh sounded sarcastic.

"It's a hard life, isn't it?" he said mournfully.

At that moment, a girl flickered into existence behind him. Harry sprang to his feet.

"There!" he exclaimed. Victor spun around, aiming smoothly and sending a spray of salt into the apparition.

"That'll keep it away for a bit," he grunted, reloading the barrels swiftly. "Did you recognize her?"

"I think it was the girl who hanged herself. Darcy Elcott. Does it matter?" Harry asked curiously, helping him to gather the few items he had spread out to pass the time.

"Why do you think I'm here?" Victor sounded exasperated. "I have to burn the right bones."

"That's how you get rid of it?"

Victor stopped what he was doing and turned very deliberately to face him.

"One day in the near future," he said solemnly, "you are going to get yourself killed through lack of information. I'm no Obi-Wan, but when we get out of here I'm going to give you a few helpful tips to ease my conscience."

"Who's Obi-Wan?"

Wordlessly, Victor shot him a very dark look and jogged over the salt line, looking rather like a pack mule with all the gear on his back. Unfortunately, once they had come within five yards of the back door, it slammed shut. Victor dropped his things with a groan and grabbed the handle, giving it a few half-hearted tugs.

"We're locked in," he announced moodily, kicking the door for good measure.

"A gh... spirit really has that much power?"

Harry tried to suppress the panic that was threatening to spill out.

"We should go back to the salt circle before discussing anything."

Once Victor had passed through the doorway, however, that door slammed shut as well. Harry banged on it as hard as he could, but the wood was depressingly sturdy.

"What do I do?" he yelled.

Victor's voice was muffled by the door. For once it was strangely calming rather than caustic.

"Do you still have your bag of salt?"

Harry groped around in his pocket.

"Yes."

"Spirits only have power within a certain area – usually where they died. If you can get out of the house, you should be safe. Otherwise, make a salt circle of your own and _stay inside it_. You got that?"

Harry licked his lips. They were very dry.

"I think so."

"Just try not to get yourself killed, okay?" Harry heard him grumbling to himself under his breath. "Look at me, all responsible. This is _exactly_ why I work on my own."

Harry worked feverishly to set up a circle, but the small plastic bag he'd brought didn't hold enough to build one that was solid and complete. He felt cold fingers on his neck as he tried desperately to spread it as thinly as he could, and he froze. Barely daring to breathe, he turned slowly, as if he might scare the thing into action.

It was the girl. She withdrew her hand as he faced her and brushed a strand of light blond hair from her face. He swallowed.

"What do you want?"

If he kept her talking, she might not attack.

She opened her mouth as if to speak, but only a scratchy croak came out. Harry winced.

"H... elp."

He frowned.

"Help? Do you need help?"

Slowly and with great effort, the pale lips formed three more syllables.

"H... e'll g... et me."

She disappeared in a burst of grey mist. The doors flew open abruptly and Harry was left standing alone in the middle of the room, feeling confused but mostly thankful that he had lasted the night unscathed.

Of course, that left the puzzle of why she hadn't killed him on the spot. And who was _he_?

* * *

Harry wiped the sweaty sheen from his forehead, pushing his heavy, damp hair back. It was abominably hot. He sighed deeply and typed another search into the cracked keypad.

Victor had grudgingly allowed him to help on this hunt – he would have anyway, but that was beside the point – and so now Harry had to slug through piles of cyber files trying to find one they could use to identify the mysterious male that Darcy had referred to.

Basically, he had look through the history of the house, and if that didn't produce anything, then the history of the neighborhood, and if that didn't work out, then the history of local prisons and people that had been given the death sentence. He wasn't even very good with computers; he hadn't touched one until about four weeks ago.

Sullenly, he tossed away the pencil with which he had been scrawling notes and random links and threw himself back on his bed. Hunting seemed a lot less actual hunting and a lot more tedious research that resembled homework too much for his liking. But he was determined to get a handle on the supernatural, and if that meant doing Victor Weismann's dirty work for him this once, then so be it.

He sighed. It was still deathly boring.

A few moments later he realized that someone was knocking on the door... very quietly as it sounded as if it had been going on for a while before he'd heard. The Dursleys were conveniently gone again for the day – he tried to remember where but memory failed him (he'd been too absorbed in Darcy Elcott and the haunted house) – so he figured he would have to answer himself.

If it turned out to be Mrs. Smith from across the street, his day would end up ten times worse. Praying to whatever helpful angels might be listening, he pulled the door open.

What he saw and what he had expected to see were so vastly different that all he could do was gape stupidly with his mouth hanging open in a distinctly unattractive fashion. He snapped it closed when he registered what he was doing.

"Who are _you_?" he asked, realizing too late how rude the question sounded, however much justified.

The curious individual blinked at him. He was a young man and his clothes were nondescript, although Harry noticed that they hung on his thin body rather awkwardly. His face was streaked with dry, black blood that crawled up his forehead and disappeared into the roots of his shaggy blond hair, and his light eyes were bizarrely blank.

"I..." he said slowly, and stopped, looking confused. "I... don't know, I'm sorry. I honestly don't know."

His accent was clearly American. Harry stared at him for a few more moments in silence, and he swayed unsteadily on his feet. Harry couldn't very well leave him bleeding on the Dursleys' doorstep, so he stepped aside wordlessly and gestured for him to come in. He moved at a sluggish pace and he seemed to favor his right side. Harry took a closer look and was promptly horrified by the dark splotch that fanned out on his shirt.

"What happened to you?"

"I don't know," the man told him, sounding a little more sure of himself now. Harry couldn't help feeling he had no business sounding like that in the state he was in.

"My aunt and uncle are out," said Harry, trying to gather his scattered senses. "My name's Harry."

The young man nodded.

"Harry. I'm sorry, I can't... you know... tell you..."

His legs abruptly buckled and he slumped to the ground in a dead faint.

* * *

 **Oh, no! The dreaded OC! I apologize, but Victor is kind of necessary as I doubt Harry could learn much about the real supernatural world on his own. There would be too much for him to sift through and most of it would be useless crap. Personally I like Victor anyway, and he'll only be a side character. Tell me what you think.**

 **Of course, if anyone can guess who our newest, unconscious addition might be, kudos to you.**

 **Reviews – especially constructive criticism – are always very much appreciated! Thank you!**


	8. Chapter 8

**All of you awesome readers have probably noticed that I'm referring to internet and computers in this story (" _But Harry Potter happens too early for that!_ "). Well, sue me, I screwed with the timelines a little. I just wanted to establish that I am aware of this and it isn't some oblivious mistake.**

 **I've just been rereading my earlier chapters (I've been writing this for more than five months! Definitely not as long as some of you authors out there, but a record for me!) and, wow, they were practically completely Harry Potter. Like _canon_ canon, not just vaguely following the books. Sorry about that. I honestly believed I was avoiding the whole "rewritten book" fanfiction deal.**

 **Oh, and one more thing: I'm warning you that this whole story is seriously plotty. I could send you a list of the hints and references I've already made and the timeline that's in progress and the whole shebang and you'd probably think "What the hell? Are you trying to write a book?". In other words, don't read this if you're sleepy.**

 **Thank you for all your feedback on Chapter 7! I'm glad that you guys like Victor. I especially enjoy writing him because he's an OC and consequently a blank slate so OOCness is impossible. And to all of you who tried to guess who The New Guy is... you won't find out for sure for a bit. Carry on, however. Congrats to those of you who guessed correctly.**

 **Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me except for parts of the story line and my little twists. Things you recognize are probably from the books or TV show.**

* * *

BOOK ONE

Chapter VIII

* * *

 _Ugh. God, his head hurt._

He shifted to find a more comfortable position and immediately regretted it. A spark of pain erupted from his side. He couldn't breathe, so he reached up blindly and groped at his chest.

 _Wires? No, tubes. What the hell?_

His eyelids felt horribly heavy, but he forced them to lift.

 _Ow. Pain. Bright._

A wave of horror swept over him for no reason and he shut his eyes again quickly.

"Too bright."

His voice sounded a lot croakier than he remembered.

 _Wait... remember? Blank... nothing..._

There was a brief rustle and clatter, and then he could feel comforting dimness press around him. Tentatively, he opened one eye, just a crack.

He was in a bed. A hospital bed, to be exact, with tubes going into his nose and a needle inserted into his arm (another wave of that horrible, vague horror swept over him and he suppressed the urge to rip it out). And it was _cold_. He shuddered violently and reached out to pull his blankets up higher. His fingers were too weak to take hold of them, but then someone was helping him.

"Here you go."

And he was warm again, finally. He snuggled deeper into the fleece before opening his eyes all the way. The Helpful Someone was a boy, with bright green eyes and tousled black hair and an eager look on his face. Funny. He hadn't expected to see a boy. Suddenly he had a flash of recognition.

"You're..." he struggled to remember (was he on medication?), "Harry. You're Harry."

A grin broke out on the boy's face, lighting it up almost inhumanly.

"You remember?!"

"Yeah." Everything was so damned _fuzzy_. "No. Not really. Just that your name's Harry. What happened?"

The boy – Harry – looked almost disappointed.

"I was hoping you'd tell me. I don't even know you. You just showed up on my doorstep."

Hmm. Problematic, that. He shivered, but mostly because the warmth was actually seeping into him for once.

"Oh." Another twinge from his side reminded him of his earlier physical state. "Sorry for fainting. I hope I didn't get blood all over your floor."

Harry laughed and swung his feet back and forth cheerfully.

"It doesn't matter. Just a little splotch. How's your head?"

He grimaced, lifting one hand to press his forehead. There was a neat, raised line of stitches on his temple.

"It aches," he admitted, sighing and letting his hand drop. "It's fine, though. Very bearable." He didn't really feel like talking about it. "So what's your whole name? Or is it just Harry?"

It came out sounding a little ruder than he had intended, but the boy didn't seem to take offense. He placidly kept swinging his feet. The old chair he was sitting on creaked with each swing. _Creak... crik... creak... crik..._

"Harry Potter," said Harry Potter.

For some reason, the name sounded familiar to him, but it was too much effort for him to dig through his tired brain and figure out why. He settled for a wordless nod. That was probably a little rude, too.

"And you?" asked Harry Potter.

 _Why did that name sound so familiar?_

Evidently his brain didn't want a rest. He sighed.

"Sorry. I still have absolutely no idea. It's kind of strange," he added, thoughtfully but on a whim. "I'm just me. No name, no identity. I just sort of... exist. Don't know how. Don't know why. It's a whole new perspective. Not that I have anything to compare it, too, of course."

Harry looked vaguely skeptical but swallowed his weird philosophical speech without comment.

 _Creak... crik... creak... crik..._

"We're in England, aren't we?" he asked, simply because there was an annoying staticky ring in his ears that he wanted to get rid of.

"Yes. Little Whinging."

"And I'm American."

"I expect so, from your accent."

"Right."

He fell into contemplative silence, scratching absently around the needle in his wrist, his fingers itching to pull it out. He suppressed the urge again.

"Has anyone called for me?" he asked, ignoring the little empty feeling in his stomach that told him there was nobody around to call.

 _Don't be ridiculous. Of course there has to be somebody._

"I'm sorry, but no," Harry confessed, looking genuinely apologetic. "It's only been a few days, though. There's every chance that someone will."

 _Hah. You think?_

Well, if that wasn't a mean, cynical voice in his head, he wondered what qualified as one. He crushed it down and thought about his warm blankets some more, because they seemed to be fairly safe territory unlike his memory loss and weird pessimistic mental conversations.

"I can't stay long," said Harry, still apologetically. "My aunt wants me back by four."

He blinked slowly.

"Okay." Harry was staring at him as if he wanted permission. "I'll be fine... I'll probably just go to sleep again anyway. I'm pretty tired."

That was an understatement. He was completely, utterly exhausted. To tell the truth, he felt like he hadn't slept in weeks. His words seemed to do the trick for the British kid, anyway.

"I'll come back," Harry promised, sliding off his chair and landing with a hollow thump on the hardwood floor. "In a couple days, or a bit more if I can't get away. Maybe you'll remember something by then."

"Yeah, I don't think so," he replied without thinking, and then winced. That had definitely been rude. "But, hey, you never know."

His eyelids were starting to feel heavier.

"Bye."

Harry was sounding less and less like an actual person speaking and more and more like an echo.

"S'long," he mumbled, and once more he slipped into oblivion.

* * *

"So what have you got?"

Harry jerked his head up from his (Dudley's) old computer, automatically reaching up to close it. He had gotten far too many strange glances from passersby over the past hour or so. A twelve-year-old – because yes, his birthday had just passed, and no, he hadn't done anything to celebrate, but that was nothing new – looking up serial murderers in the library probably wasn't an everyday occurrence. It was actually a little disturbing that _he_ didn't think it was disturbing. After looking at countless gory images, one did tend to grow immune to them.

"Victor."

The hunter flopped down on the chair opposite.

"The one and only."

Harry closed his computer, just in case someone passed while he was talking, and shot the aforementioned a suspicious look.

"How did you know I was here?"

"Victor sees all, knows all," said Victor wisely. He groaned at Harry's expression. "Why do you think I gave you a cellphone? Out of the goodness of my heart?"

"I did wonder," Harry replied flatly.

He pretended he knew why that had anything to do with it and resolved to look up "tracking cellphones" on the internet later. He liked the internet. It was incredibly useful. He'd just discovered Gmail, and was in the process of contacting Hermione, who'd given him her email address with a hopeful look since he was her only Muggle-born(ish) friend. He hadn't had the heart to tell her that he didn't know what an email address was and that he'd never touched a computer before in his life, and now he was glad he hadn't since he'd found one.

"So." Victor folded his hands expectantly. "Spirits? Serial killers? Haunted house? Oh, and I've been careless..."

There was a sharp _click_ as he opened a gleaming switch blade and held it out, blade first. Harry stared at it blankly.

"What am I supposed to do?"

"This."

Harry winced as he drew it across his forearm, blood welling around the narrow slit.

"That can't be comfortable."

Victor shrugged and slid it across the table to him.

"It really doesn't feel like much. Too sharp."

Somehow, Harry decided, that was meant to make him feel better, but he had yet to figure out how. He picked it up gingerly.

"Remind me why we're cutting ourselves?"

"It's a silver blade," Victor explained, dabbing his cut quickly before pulling down the sleeve of his sweater. "If you're a shapeshifter or something nasty like that, it'll burn and I'll know you're not you. If not... well, a bit of a sting is a small price to pay for trust between comrades, eh?"

That was debatable. After some hesitance, Harry slid it quickly across his left index finger, careful to use the still unsullied side of the blade, and then shoved it back towards Victor, who gave a loud and unrefined snort.

"As we were saying," Harry said hastily, reopening his computer, which had frozen on the mug shot of a morbidly cheerful man. He stuck his still-bleeding finger in his mouth. "Um... yes. Well, I think that's him."

Victor leaned forward and examined the picture.

"Why do you say that?" he queried, apparently without much interest.

"I looked him up." Hiding the title, Harry clicked on the file labeled "Ghost Hunt #1" and with satisfaction watched the fruits of his labor pop up in front of them. "Julian Allen was imprisoned and executed back in the 1920s for kidnapping and murder. He would hang his victims so that it looked like suicide... that's why it took nearly a decade to catch him. I don't think there's a particular reason for him choosing that house, except that it's within half a mile of the cemetery where he was buried and looks similar to the houses he chose to use while he was alive. I think he came back and killed Darcy."

He made an annoyed noise as Victor turned the computer to face him, flipping rapidly through the stockpile of information he had gathered. Harry watched him through narrowed eyes.

"Good job," Victor said finally, standing up with a clatter. "You got nearly everything right. Better than I expected. Only the house does have some significance as it's built over the spot where his childhood home was. Gruesome, I know, childhood home of a murderer, but it isn't as if I choose these things."

Stunned, Harry stared.

"You mean I did all of this for nothing?" he exclaimed, too surprised to feel angry. Yet, anyway. "You already did everything yourself."

"Of course I did," said Victor, sounding offended that Harry would even suppose he hadn't. He straightened his probably twenty-some-year-old jacket. "It's not like I'm going to trust some kid I met a few days ago with my hunt _and_ my life. I'll pick you up at one o'clock tonight. Make sure you have plenty of salt, and if possible a weapon made of iron. And what did I say about calling them ghosts?"

* * *

The most difficult part of the devil's trap was the... well, all of it, really, but the circle was especially hard to perfect. Harry licked the end of his pencil determinedly and tried again. He always drew it a little wobbly around the edges, and so that it resembled a oval (with tails where the ends met, because he wasn't very good at aligning them either) rather than a circle.

The pentagram was easier. The point dispersion was tricky but he got the hang of it quickly enough. He was just finishing his twenty-seventh mini trap (with one devil's trap per sheet of paper, his room was rapidly being filled with crumpled rejects) when Victor's phone started vibrating on the floor beside him. Hurriedly, he snuffed out his candle and answered the call.

"What?" he whispered.

" _I've been waiting outside for ten minutes_."

Victor didn't sound too happy. Harry winced.

"Sorry, I forgot. I got a little caught up doing... stuff. I'll be down right away."

" _Please do_."

Harry stuffed the cellphone into his back pocket and shoved all the papers and pencils into his Hogwarts trunk (he doubted his relatives would dare to look there; they probably thought they would turn into toads if they opened it). Armed with salt and what he hoped was an iron knife from the same place he'd bought his flashlight – he was starting to think the shop a little shady – he crept downstairs and through the kitchen window.

A sleek black Volvo was parked outside. Harry pulled the door open, feeling uncomfortably like he was entering a kidnapper's van, and slid inside.

"Finally," Victor huffed, slamming his foot down on the gas pedal before Harry could even buckle himself.

"I was busy."

"At one o'clock? You're eleven."

"Twelve, now," Harry corrected. "I just turned."

"Congratulations. Still, a twelve-year old?"

Harry shrugged.

"Why not?" he asked, playing with his knife. He clumsily nicked his already cut finger and winced in pain. Victor rolled his eyes.

"All right. If you're going to be all mysterious that's your choice, I suppose."

He swerved abruptly into a narrow lane to their left. Harry bit back a yelp and gripped the armrests.

The graveyard was dark and surrounded by a dense cluster of trees. Row upon row of upright tombstones gleamed almost white in the moonlight, only breaking for the occasional ghostly mausoleum. Victor stopped at the far end.

"Where's his grave?" Harry asked, following him out to his trunk and gawking at the arsenal inside.

Victor rummaged through the weapons, pulling out two containers. Kerosene and matches.

"It's somewhere in this cluster," he said, waving a hand vaguely around their general parameter. "We'll have to look through most of them on our own."

That might take a while.

"It'll take a while," Victor told him, as if he had read his thoughts. "But we have a while. So." He tossed him a shovel, which Harry very nearly missed. "Start looking."

If only graves were dug in alphabetical order. Harry hefted the shovel onto his shoulder and flicked on his flashlight. Feeling rather inclined to break the eerie silence (it was a graveyard after all), he cleared his throat.

"Is it just me or do you find it mildly disturbing to dig up a serial killer's grave at one in the morning?"

Pausing, Victor shot him a puzzled look, as though the thought hadn't ever occurred to him.

"No, not particularly," he admitted finally. "I think it's just you."

"Oh," said Harry doubtfully. The thought fled from his mind when he saw the name engraved on the next headstone. "Here it is... I think."

Joining him, Victor crouched nearer and read the worn words. He nodded shortly.

"Yes, this is it. I'll start digging. Keep an eye out for our friend Julian; he's likely to show up sooner or later."

Harry clenched his fingers more tightly around the hilt of his knife as the sharp slap of shovel against soil began. Noise probably didn't mean much to a spirit, but he still had an unconscious desire to muffle it.

"This..." Victor grunted, throwing up another clump of dirt, "is the... worst part..." _splat_ , "of this whole damn job. Sometimes I wonder why..."

Harry spun around as he heard a faint crackle.

"Duck!" he yelled.

Victor ducked a second too late and went flying in another headstone several yards away. Harry lunged at the suited apparition, slashing upwards with his knife. It wafted through empty air.

"Dammit," Victor muttered, pulling himself up as well as he could. Blearily, he shook his head. "Hurry, he'll be back soon. And he won't be happy either."

"I don't think he was happy this time," said Harry, breathlessly.

With an absent-minded movement, Victor swiped at the trickle of blood running down his cheek. He stared at the smudge on his hand.

"Yeah, me neither," was all he said.

After another moment of silence, he snatched up the shovel and shoved it into the dirt. Harry's fingers twitched as he watched the area around him with nervous eyes. Victor made a satisfied noise from behind him as the shovel clanged hollowly against wood.

"Almost done."

Julian apparently did not like that comment because he flared into existence immediately in front of Harry, swiping him to the side in a careless manner. Harry slammed into the ground, air whooshing from his lungs in a way uncomfortably reminiscent of his encounter with the possessed Neville. He coughed and lifted his head.

Victor was being held in a chokehold by the angry ghost and was trying both to keep himself from getting killed and to sign frantically at Harry to burn the bones. Stumbling to the kerosene, Harry twisted open its cap, sloshing it over Julian's remains. He struck a match with trembling fingers. It didn't light. Not allowing himself to panic, he tried again and almost let out a sigh of relief when a tiny flame flickered to life at the end.

Julian screeched angrily as he was swallowed by a cloud of smoky blue flames. Hacking, Victor collapsed on the ground. He rubbed his throat vigorously.

" _Agh_ ," he grunted hoarsely. "I don't feel at _all_ inclined to repeat that experience."

Harry very nearly wilted in relief.

"Not bad," said Victor, as they turned onto Privet Drive.

Harry yawned. There was already a faint glimmer of light near the horizon and he hadn't slept a wink.

"I hate ghosts," he told him, trying to hide the little thrill of pride that ran down his spine at the words of praise.

"Don't we all?"

Harry blinked as the hunter rolled his bruised shoulder ruefully. He hadn't even remarked on his use of gho...

"But it's still called a spirit."

Never mind. But Victor's lips had twitched.

"I'm heading out of the area now," he started. Harry's heart sank for some reason. "There aren't usually many jobs to be had around here. However, if you find anything suspicious, you can call."

"All right."

Victor shot him a shrewd look.

"Keep the phone," he said casually.

Harry frowned and stared at the above mentioned device.

"Isn't there service or something you have to pay for?"

Victor looked vaguely guilty.

"Don't worry about it," he assured him. "It's not a problem."

Harry shrugged.

"I'm not even going to ask."

"That might be a good idea," Victor agreed. "You'd better go before your aunt finds out you're gone. I don't think she'd be too happy."

There was something in his voice that made Harry looked up sharply, but the hunter's face was carefully blank.

"No, I don't think she would," Harry said slowly. He shoved his knife into his belt. "Goodbye, Victor."

"Ciao."

* * *

John was reading one of those damnably boring hospital health magazines when the boy came in again. He quickly folded it closed and sat up.

"Harry," he greeted.

Harry nodded and smiled, his face still somewhat serious, and seated himself in the same place as before.

"It's hard to find your room," he observed. "The lady at the desk downstairs said you were on level four, and that was fine, but the room numbers are all mixed up. For some reason nineteen's all the way on this end of the hall instead of next to twenty where it should be."

He seemed grumpy about the whole situation, which made John grin.

"Trials and tribulations, huh?"

Harry shrugged and then brightened.

"So have you remembered anything yet? Your name? Where you're from?"

John shifted uncomfortably.

"No, nothing."

Harry wrinkled his nose.

"Oh," he said, disappointed. "That'll be a bit awkward, won't it? I come in, and you say 'Hello, Harry,' and I just say 'Hi' and stare."

John pulled his blankets closer. He still felt a chill in his bones that wouldn't go away. The blankets really didn't do much, but they were for psychological reasons more than anything else.

"You can call me John," he offered. "Not for any real reason. Just, you know, like John Doe."

"You don't look like a John," said Harry, frowning, "but all right. Are they going to let you out anytime soon?"

"I don't think so. I've still got a hole in my side and the aftereffects of hypothermia – which is a pain in the ass, because I'm always freezing – and besides there's the whole amnesia thing."

"Hmm."

Harry fell into thoughtful silence.

"There's a reason I came today, actually," he said suddenly. "I'm leaving for boarding school soon."

"Oh?"

That was a depressing thought. John had sort of come to see the kid as a friend. His only friend, really, since his old ones didn't appear to care much about where he was.

"I have a cellphone, but unfortunately there are service problems," Harry explained hurriedly. "The school is in a remote area. I'll be back for Christmas, though. If you like you can ring me up then. Here's the number."

He shoved a piece of paper into John's hand. John stared down at the childish scrawl and felt a weird lump in his throat.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it," said Harry.

* * *

"Harry Potter!"

The loud squeak startled Harry and he promptly fell off his bed. He rolled to his stomach, straightening his glasses and staring in bewilderment at the strange creature that stood before him. It was small and spindly and had large, luminous eyes that gazed at him sorrowfully as if it was on the verge of bursting into tears.

"You're a house elf!" he exclaimed, suddenly remembering his conversation with Margaret at the beginning of first year. "What are you doing here? I didn't know we had a house elf."

Trembling, the creature shook its head vigorously.

"Dobby isn't Harry Potter's," it said tremulously. "Dobby wishes he was, but he didn't come for that. Harry Potter mustn't go back to Hogwarts! Very dangerous, very dangerous!"

It made another frightened squeak for emphasis. Harry felt like patting it on the head reassuringly (did house elves bite?).

"I'll be all right," he said... for after all he had come face to face with both a demon and a murderous, serial killer ghost and escaped relatively unscathed. "I won't be alone, anyway. I've got lots of friends – three, as a matter of fact."

His words didn't seem to reassure the elf (whose name was apparently Dobby, judging from the way it referred to itself in third person). It wrung its sticklike fingers in agonized despair.

"No! Harry Potter mustn't, he mustn't! Besides," a crafty look came over its face that immediately put Harry into high alert, "Harry Potter doesn't have friends, not real ones. They didn't write to him all summer."

Scowling, Harry tried to grab its arm, but it had evidently anticipated the movement and leapt agilely away, the little rag it wore as clothing flapping crazily. Harry scrambled to his feet.

"What do you know about that?" he asked suspiciously, because he had just realized that he really hadn't gotten any letters from Ron or Hermione. He hadn't expected much from Margaret, either, but to get nothing at all... that was queer.

The elf looked everywhere except at him and continued to wring its hands, muttering to itself. Harry caught the words "Harry Potter," and "danger," and "mustn't go to Hogwarts." It appeared to have a very one-track mind.

"What are you talking about?" he asked again, more harshly.

Cowering, it held out a crumpled, dirty pile of paper.

"Why you little..."

It gave a screech of dismay as Harry pounced on it and wrested the letters from its grasp. He flipped through them greedily. Five from Hermione, with increasingly angry handwritten addresses. Three with Ron's thin chicken scrawl all over the packaging. One with Margaret's loopy, elegant handwriting in neat rows on the envelope.

He half grinned, but remembered Dobby's presence and twisted his expression into a glare instead. Dobby looked so pitiful and weepy in a little ball of elf on the floor that his anger melted. He plopped down on his bed with a sigh, sitting on top of his letters (just because he'd forgiven Dobby didn't mean he trusted him), and began an interrogation of sorts.

"So tell me why you sneakily hid my letters from me," he said, staring very piercingly at the elf. "And why did you decide to tell me now?"

"Harry Potter mustn't go..."

"Yes, I got that," said Harry crossly. "I mustn't go to Hogwarts and all that rot. But why? And don't say because it's dangerous," he added before Dobby could open his mouth, "because I got that part, too."

"Dobby can't tell Harry Potter," Dobby whimpered, gnawing on his knobby fists.

"Don't talk nonsense."

"Dobby can't! He can't, he can't, he ca..."

"All right, all right," Harry cut in, alarmed, because the elf was starting to look really distressed. "Never mind then."

"No, no, no," Dobby cried, his eyes widening. "Dobby must! Harry Potter mustn't go to Hogwarts because very terrible things will happen and... bad Dobby, bad Dobby!"

He started to beat himself against the poster of Harry's bed, weeping copiously at his self-inflicted pain. Horrified, Harry pulled him away and restrained him.

"What are you doing?! Stop... you know what? Don't tell me! Honestly, I'll be fine."

Dobby sniffled, still wriggling his fists and trying to hit himself.

"But Harry Potter..."

"No," said Harry firmly but kindly. He let go of the elf warily. "Listen, I'm grateful for your concern," Dobby's face lit up so much at that that Harry wondered if he had ever been praised before, "but I'm really going to be okay. Don't worry about me, worry about you. Why do you keep hitting yourself, anyway?"

Sniffling again, Dobby twisted his hands together.

"Every time Dobby does something he mustn't," he whispered, looking around furtively before continuing, "every time, he must punish himself for disobeying his masters."

"That's horrible!"

"No, Dobby is bad, very bad," Dobby moaned. "But he doesn't want Harry Potter to be in danger, so he came anyway."

Harry pressed his temples, feeling the beginning of a headache coming on. The whole affair was a little beyond him.

"You'd better go now," he told Dobby, who opened his mouth again in protest. Fairly certain that whatever he planned on saying would include "danger," "terrible things," and of course "Harry Potter," with perhaps a "Dobby" or two dispersed throughout, Harry held up a silencing finger. "No... please, just go. I'll think about what you said, but I've got an aunt and uncle and they wouldn't be happy to find you here."

Dobby nodded mournfully and then with another loud _crack_ he disappeared. Harry blinked at the spot where he had vanished. That was a rather neat trick.

A faint itch under his leg reminded him of his unread letters and he pulled them out from under him, wondering anxiously what his friends thought about his summer-long silence. It couldn't be anything good.

* * *

 **Reviews – especially constructive criticism – are always very much appreciated! Thank you!**


	9. Chapter 9

**I've had an odd spurt in productivity and I'm giving you the next chapter way ahead of schedule. Welcome back to Harry Potter, everyone! I'll try not to stick so close to the books this time... which probably means second year won't take up nearly as many chapters as first year, unless I decide to add a double dose of Supernatural into the mix.**

 **Thank you to luv-blonde-bunny, war sage, OtakuDrag0n, and Sailor Pandabear for your reviews! Just wondering, did the rest of you guys hate last chapter or something? I was a little worried about that.**

 **I also find that I'm writing Harry a bit differently now. I don't know if it has to do with my mood or what. I hope he isn't very OOC, although of course this Harry is developing differently due to the house change and hunting.**

 **Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me except for parts of the story line and my little twists. Things you recognize are probably from the books or TV show.**

* * *

BOOK ONE

Chapter IX

* * *

"You," said Hermione, with slow, concentrated fury, "are complete, utter _git_."

Harry winced and opened his mouth to explain, but she wasn't finished.

"You _said_ you would write. You _promised_. I sent you _five letters_ and you didn't even bother to answer _one_..."

Even Ron looked alarmed.

"All right, all right, calm down," said Harry placatingly. Hermione glared at him with angrily glittering brown eyes. "Look, I'm sorry. I couldn't. I didn't get any of them."

"You what?"

"I didn't get even one," Harry promised. "It wasn't my fault at all. I had absolutely no control over the situation. It was all Dobby's fault."

Silence.

"Who's Dobby?" Ron asked curiously.

His mild annoyance over the whole letter business had dissolved after the descent of the avenging angel (alternatively known as Hermione Granger) on Harry, and he seemed inclined to believe the best about his friend. Harry shot him a grateful look.

"He's somebody's house elf," he explained, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. It was a hot day and they kept slipping down. "I'm not sure whose, but he popped into my bedroom about a week ago and said I shouldn't go to Hogwarts because it was dangerous or something. He took all my letters; I think he thought I would agree to stay if I thought my friends weren't... my friends."

They were standing outside Slug and Jigger's Apothecary, Harry having already bought his potions supplies. He had been waylaid once he had stepped foot outside. To be honest, he'd expected it and braced himself as soon as he'd seen the cloud of frizzy brown hair heading in his direction.

"Oh." Hermione looked almost sheepish. "Well. I'm sorry, then. But you still could have sent some of your own."

"Yes, I could have," Harry acknowledged. "I'm sorry. I was caught up in a lot of stuff."

"Now that we're all done apologizing," said Ron, who was standing impatiently to the side. "How about if we get on with our shopping so that we can go somewhere that's actually interesting?"

"I've got to get my potions ingredients," Hermione told them. "Wait for me. I'll be out in a bit."

She disappeared inside the apothecary. Ron and Harry stared at each other for a couple seconds, neither quite sure what to say. Ron cleared his throat.

"Do you have the list of books for this year?"

"Yes... yes, I do."

Harry pulled the crumpled paper out of his pocket. He frowned at it.

"Hullo. Did you know that all the Defense Against the Dark Arts textbooks are by the same author?"

"What?" Ron peered over his shoulder. "I've heard of him," he announced, rather darkly.

"Gilderoy Lockhart," Harry read aloud, slowly. He flipped to the back cover and came face to face with a moving picture of the author himself, beaming and waving. He closed it quickly. "That's a queer name."

"Not half so queer as the bloke himself," Ron assured him. "All the girls are batty about him, even Mum. They think he's some kind of hero, goodness knows why."

"He _is_ a hero."

They both started as Hermione manifested silently right behind them.

"I've read every single one of his books," she said, in an enraptured tone. Ron looked disgusted. "They're absolutely wonderful. He's so brave... do you know how many evil creatures he's faced? Dozens! And then he writes books to help others understand how to fight them, and now he's going to teach us this year! I can hardly wait to meet him and have him sign my copies."

Her eyes shone. A ludicrous image of Lockhart the "hero" being strangled by the vengeful spirit of Julian Allen rose to Harry's mind and he choked on a laugh, coughing loudly to hide it.

"He sounds like a prat," said Ron sulkily, and without much tact.

Harry kicked him swiftly, but the shine in Hermione's eyes had already been replaced by explosive sparks. Her voice was deceptively calm.

"Thank you for your input, _Ron_ ," she said frigidly. "But have you ever faced an evil vampire without your wand? Or a rabid werewolf? No. All you do is sit in your _safe, warm home and stuff your face with Chocolate Frogs_."

Ron turned pink and Harry groaned. Not a day into the new school year and they were already having one of their spats. If only Ron would keep his mouth shut now...

"Yeah? Well... well, you're nothing but a silly, infatuated schoolgirl!"

Apparently that was too much to ask.

"You know what?" Harry suggested hurriedly. "I think we should get our books. Hermione, you're done here? All right, good, come on."

He dragged them off before they could protest.

A sizable crowd had gathered outside the book shop, and it was growing larger every moment. Harry paused as they drew nearer. Someone was at the center, talking loudly, and he caught a flash of immaculately groomed blond hair.

"It's him!" Hermione exclaimed. "It's Gilderoy Lockhart!"

And here he'd thought they had safely escaped the topic. The chap had absolutely terrible timing. Ron looked thunderous, but Hermione had already disappeared into the depths of the crowd.

Gilderoy Lockhart was vociferously describing one of his encounters (supposedly with a vicious kind of dragon) when Harry and Ron breathlessly joined Hermione, who had stopped several feet away from the author.

"Hermione. Books!" Harry hissed in her ear, hoping that it would snap her out of her daze.

Then the great Gilderoy Lockhart's eyes fell on him and lit up.

"Harry Potter?"

Harry's eyes widened, but the man was already herding him out of the crowd.

"Harry Potter!" Lockhart boomed, beaming. "It's a pleasure to meet you, it really is! Looking well, I see. Ready for your second year at Hogwarts?"

"Um... I..." Harry spluttered, acutely aware that every eye was glued to his face and that there was a lot of not-too-subtle pointing and whispering.

"Good, good," said Lockhart jovially, without waiting for an answer. "Harry, my boy, how would you like to take a few photos together? It'll be good publicity for you. Oh, and were you going to be in my Defense class? I'll give you a free copy of my books... and sign them, too, as an extra bargain."

He had to be stopped there. Harry wriggled out of his grasp.

"I don't want to take photos," he said, rather coldly. "And I'm not your boy."

Lockhart looked stunned – how often did people dare not to fall at his feet and grovel? – but Harry shoved past him into Flourish and Blotts. The book shop was pleasantly dim and quiet, with the dry, dusty smell of parchment in the air.

"Harry!" Ron exclaimed when he burst in. He got a pointed look from one of the employees and lowered his voice quickly. "That was terrific! You should have seen his face."

Hermione seemed displeased at his blatant disrespect for her hero.

"You didn't have to be so uncivil," she said reprovingly.

"I hate people staring at me. Anyway, he was rude first."

"That's not an excuse."

Harry stared down at the book he had picked up. _Wanderings with Werewolves_ by Gilderoy Lockhart.

"Well, we're buying the whole lot of his books," he said unrepentantly. "I think that's enough of an apology if I hurt his feelings."

* * *

Ginny was staring at him from her place beside Ron with something that seemed akin to hero worship. Harry squirmed. Was this type of odd behavior what was called a crush? He had never had one or felt any inclination to have one. It was difficult to tell. Hopefully she wouldn't be like this all year.

The train shuddered, its squeaking bolts muffled by the thick upholstery of the seats and walls. Harry carefully avoided Ginny's eyes. He tapped his foot agitatedly and fingered the knife in his pocket (he had replaced the crummy iron one for another made of silver that Victor had offered before they parted ways) and felt utterly ridiculous.

Hermione looked up from her book with an irritated expression.

"Stop being so fidgety, Harry."

With difficulty, Harry stilled himself.

Footsteps neared their compartment and suddenly a girl was standing in the doorway. She gazed at them with a serene countenance, an almost ethereal quality to her form. Her dreamy eyes fell on Harry and paused.

"May I come in?"

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny all turned to stare at the newcomer, who appeared untroubled by their scrutiny. She stared at Harry as if asking for his permission and he fumbled for a reply.

"Yes... yes, of course."

"Thank you."

Hermione smiled at her welcomingly and scooted over to make room. Harry had a sneaking suspicion that she also wanted to put as much distance as possible between herself and his fidgeting. The girl slipped into the spot smoothly.

"I'm Harry Potter," said Harry, by way of introduction, although she probably already knew that.

"I know," she replied, a tiny wisp of a smile on her lips, and he could have sworn she had read his mind and that his thoughts had mildly amused her. "And I'm Luna... Luna Lovegood."

"My name's Ron Weasley, and this is my sister, Ginny."

"Hermione Granger."

"I'm very pleased to meet you all," said Luna gravely. She delicately unfolded a paper – a newspaper, its name apparently beginning with "Qui" judging from the partially concealed heading – onto her lap. "I don't know anyone else. It's my first year."

That surprised Harry. There was a maturity in her expression, for all its dreaminess, that was far beyond her years. But then her expression changed and she suddenly looked her age. He frowned. Odd.

"It's Ginny's, too," said Ron, for Ginny seemed rather shy.

Luna shot Ginny a completely unexplainable look of distaste.

"I see," she said coldly, and begin studiously to read her paper upside-down.

Harry and Ron stared at each other, silently conveying their confusion, and then simultaneously shrugged and returned to what they had been doing.

Luna fit in seamlessly with their small group (exception of Ginny), and by the time they reached the station, it felt almost as if she had always been there. She and Ginny headed for the boats with the rest of the first years, careful to keep a distance apart. Harry watched them go and wondered why they seemed so repulsive to each other, but then Ron was grabbing his arm and pulling him along with the flow of students heading in the general direction of Hogwarts castle.

"What on earth?!" Harry exclaimed as they walked towards the carriages, for there was a horrid specimen of a horse-like animal harnessed to each one. "What are those things?"

He turned his head to question his friends, but they were staring back at him with perplexed yet unperturbed expressions.

"What things?" Hermione queried, without a bit of humor in her voice or expression.

"Those... dead horse things!"

One of the "dead horse things" turned its head and looked at him with a beady eye. Harry gulped. All right. Definitely not dead, then.

"What dead horse things?" Hermione asked, very patiently.

"The ones attached to our carriages."

Ron looked baffled and squinted at the carriages more closely.

"There's nothing attached to the carriages," he said. "I think they're charmed to move on their own."

"No, they're not," Harry argued, feeling rather like a stubborn two-year-old throwing a temper tantrum in front of his two disbelieving parents. He deflated. "You know what, never mind. Let's just go."

* * *

"Potter," Margaret greeted as he took a seat next to her at the Slytherin table.

"Margaret. How was your summer?"

She shrugged.

"If you don't count all the messy family power struggles, fine, I suppose."

At the front of the room, Dumbledore began his annual "welcome back" speech, which Harry didn't bother to listen to. Margaret didn't mention the letter business, but he felt he owed her an explanation.

"I only just got your letter."

"Oh?" she questioned, with seeming disinterest, but Harry saw her back stiffen.

"I'm sorry I couldn't reply. A house elf showed up and said I'd be in danger if I came to Hogwarts. Somehow stealing all my letters fit into that." He watched her carefully to see if she had been appeased, and added, "I didn't think to write to Ron or Hermione either, if that makes you feel better."

That drew a huff of laughter out of her.

"As if it would."

She didn't make comments about Gryffindor or mudbloods or blood traitors as she might have last year. Harry was grateful for that.

Dumbledore had finished speaking, and the first years were being sorted. Harry watched every now and then with a sort of vague interest, only perking up when Luna was called and sorted into Ravenclaw. Soon later it was Ginny's turn, and as the hat slipped over her head, Harry could have sworn that a tiny smirk graced her lips, and then...

"Slytherin!"

What?

 _What_?

He stared in disbelief at the ginger girl as she made her way to join his house. She looked neither surprised nor disappointed.

"Harry," she smiled as she sashayed past him.

Open-mouthed, Harry whipped his head around, catching Ron's eye. Ron looked stupefied, and mouthed something at him that he couldn't make out. He shook his head lightly.

"A Weasley in Slytherin," Margaret drawled, a sort of freakish humor in her voice. "I never thought I'd see the day. I wonder what her family will think?"

"I have a feeling I'll find out soon enough," Harry muttered.

* * *

"I don't... I don't _understand_ ," Ron exclaimed, when they were all three together again. Hermione threw Harry an apologetic glance. "Something must have gone wrong. I mean, she's in Slytherin. And she's my sister. And... and _You-Know-Who_ was in Slytherin."

Harry winced at that.

"Thanks for reminding me," he retorted, remembering all too well his feelings when he had first been told that particular piece of information.

Ron seemed to remember his presence and backtracked quickly.

"I'm sorry, Harry," he said quickly, and ran a nervous hand through his hair. "I didn't mean..."

"Look, it doesn't matter," Harry interjected wearily. "I don't mind, okay? After getting a wand with the same core as Voldemort..." Ron flinched at the name and Harry continued impatiently, "not to mention the oh-so-famous scar on my forehead, I've become pretty much immune to any connections of that sort. But I think you're being a little hard on Ginny. It's the hat that chooses what's best for the wearer, after all."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Ron mumbled, shifting uneasily on his feet. "Slytherin is the house for the cunning and ambitious, isn't it? I don't think Ginny is either..." His eyes widened in horror. "Oh, no. There was that time we were playing Quidditch at home and she made raspberry crumpets and then she snuck behind my back and stole my broom!"

Harry snorted with laughter, and even Hermione cracked a smile.

"I... I don't think that's very dangerous," Harry gasped, when he had calmed sufficiently. "I doubt she'll turn into a dark lord... or lady... by making people raspberry crumpets."

Ron grinned reluctantly.

"Well, all right," he conceded magnanimously. "I guess we'll just have to see how everything turns out, won't we?"

"Brilliant deduction, Ron," Harry agreed dryly. "Good job."

"Thanks, I did think I... Wait, was that... _sarcastic_?"

He could see what was with Victor and the dry sarcasm now.

* * *

Draco Malfoy and a boy named Blaise something-or-other were thick as thieves this year. Crabbe and Goyle followed them like mindless shadows, but they seemed to irritate Draco more often than not. Harry caught him shooting them extremely piqued glances at their continued attempts to emulate him and he felt almost sympathetic. Almost being the key word, of course.

Ginny was doing all right in Slytherin, although she generally steered away from Harry (which was puzzling, given her earlier behavior), opting to curl up in a corner and write in the little black notebook that she carried everywhere. She didn't have a whole lot of friends, so nobody knew exactly what made up its contents. Harry caught her smiling at the pages after writing a particularly lengthy entry, and he wondered.

"Why do you not like Ginny?" he asked Luna one day, for this was another puzzle he had yet to solve.

The blonde Ravenclaw doodled a bit longer on her scroll absent-mindedly.

"There's something about her that's off," she explained, not bothering to refute the accusation. Harry found her frankness refreshing. "I think you should be careful around her, Harry. She's not what you think she is."

That was another thing he liked about Luna. To her, he was simply her friend, Harry. She never looked at him through the starry, Harry Potter-fied eyes that even Ron and Hermione, for all their closeness and time spent together, tended to lapse into occasionally.

"She does seem a little different," Harry agreed, resting his chin on his fist pensively. "I met her last year and she was very... Gryffindor, if you know what I mean. Very like Ron."

"I'm sure she was."

There wasn't a hint of irony in her tone. She started to draw again, lightly tracing the form of one of her strange and likely nonexistent creatures.

"What are you drawing?"

"It's called a Feathery Diviness," said Luna airily, sounding as if she'd made up the name on the spot. Harry wasn't entirely certain she hadn't. She added a few finishing touches to the figure and then folded her scroll neatly and handed it to Harry. "It's for you."

He took it.

"Um... thanks."

But she had already gone, disappearing into the bookshelves and humming a tuneless song.

* * *

Nearly a month had passed before Harry realized that he hadn't put up one single protection in his room.

Salt was first. He had a large bag of salt in his trunk (maybe he was forgetful now that school had started, but he hadn't been stupid) and he lined all the walls with a wide strip that his roommates would hopefully but not likely overlook. He could explain it away with paranoia, though, as many wizards were superstitious and salt was a well-known supernatural purifier.

For the door he made a similar contraption to the one he had used to trap Neville. Fortunately the bag was still more than half full by the time he'd finished. He couldn't get another until Christmas – he had to go back to Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia because he'd promised John (he rather regretted that now) – so if he ran out he would inconveniently have to steal from the kitchens.

The devil's trap that he'd found during his summer of research he started drawing on the floor, before deciding it was too obvious and couldn't be explained away as easily as salt. So, casting _Wingardium Leviosa_ on his shoes (it took a long time to do it properly as he was terrible with practically all spell work), he drew it as well as he could on the ceiling with ink.

Despite its magical properties, his bottle ran out before he was half finished (he wished now that he'd bought one of those self-refilling bottles) and he had to beg some out of his housemates. He was gaining quite a reputation for being the Slytherin oddball, what with his strange habits and strange friends and unremarkable appearance in spite of his celebrity status.

Margaret was unfailingly loyal in the midst of this.

"You should have been sorted into Hufflepuff," Harry told her.

"If that was supposed to be a joke," said Margaret, mildly, "you're not very funny."

"I'm hilarious."

She nodded with condescending tolerance.

"If thinking that makes you happy."

It wasn't long before one of his roommates noticed the large and rather obvious symbol on the ceiling.

"Potter! What the hell is that?"

There were further protests, both verbal and physical, but at least he knew one person who was definitely not possessed.

* * *

The _stuff_ began to happen on Halloween. Harry thought back to the year before and wondered if there was a pattern, or if evil things really did lurk about on said day.

At any rate, Mrs. Norris was found frozen in place in one of the halls. He didn't actually see her, but it was the sole subject of the next morning's breakfast conversation. He couldn't bring himself to feel sorry because she was a horrid cat. It was the message written in grotesque red paint on the wall nearby that was concerning.

 _The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir, beware._

That sounded ominous. He was starting to think that Dobby had been right. Hopefully he wasn't an enemy of the heir.

"The Chamber of Secrets," Hermione read aloud, "was built in secret by Salazar Slytherin – how am I reading about it then? – and legend suggests he sealed a terrible monster into it that only his heir can control."

"Why is it always us?" Ron complained, kicking the leg of the table sulkily. The library was empty save for him, Hermione, Harry, and Luna, who was as calm as ever. The students who had come before in ones and twos to study were now wary of walking through Hogwarts' halls alone. "Can't we have a year of peace?"

"Apparently not," Hermione said shortly (she hated being interrupted). "As I was saying, only Slytherin's heir can control the monster." She slammed the book closed. "How perfectly _wonderful_. We're back where we started. The message gave us all this information already."

"But now you know that it's _Slytherin's_ heir you have to look for," Luna put in, surprising everyone with her contribution.

"Now we have a shorter list of suspects," Harry said eagerly. "Ron, get out some writing materials. We'll make one now."

Ron, who was bored and showing it in increasingly obvious ways, grumbled loudly but dug into his sack. He spread out a scroll and held his quill poised over the parchment.

"So who's first?"

"Malfoy."

"Draco."

"We all seem to be in agreement about that," Ron muttered, jotting the name down. "But don't forget the girls. The message didn't specify whether the heir was male or female."

"It would have said heiress if he was a girl, but he isn't because it said heir," Harry told him.

"Maybe she isn't very good at grammar," said Ron defensively. "Or she ran out of paint."

Harry wrinkled his nose.

"But how would he know he didn't have enough paint if he wasn't done writing yet?"

"She was _almost_ done."

"It doesn't really matter," Hermione interrupted, exasperated. "We need more names."

"Crabbe or Goyle?"

Hermione frowned.

"I don't think they're prime heir material, but I guess we have to consider all of our options."

"Crabbe..." Ron muttered under his breath, scribbling furiously, "and... Goyle. Oh," he said suddenly, looking up, "and of course you, Harry."

Harry very nearly fell off his chair.

"What?!"

"You're in Slytherin," said Ron, in a logical, superior tone. "And you're a Potter, one of the oldest pureblood families around. And you've defeated You-Know-Who. You're very prime material."

"But I didn't open the Chamber!"

Hermione glanced down at her book, saw that it was closed, and looked up again.

"It didn't say you had to," she pointed out. "Just that you could control the monster. It wouldn't be a bad thing, Harry. It would just mean we're in less danger."

"Rubbish! I don't want to be Slytherin's heir!"

"You're going on the list," said Ron decidedly. "Sorry, Harry."

Harry groaned.

* * *

Harry weighed his knife comfortably in his fist and flicked it up. Flipping neatly, it landed with a satisfying thud in his palm. He grinned proudly. He was getting better at that. _That_ being a completely useless skill, but it made him feel adept and like a hardened hunter.

"Hey, Harry."

He spun around, flinging his arm up protectively and forgetting that he still held the silver knife.

"Ow!" Ginny exclaimed, clutching her arm.

"I'm sorry, Ginny, I didn't see..."

He caught sight of the shallow slice on her arm and paused. It was sizzling slightly.

 _If you're a shapeshifter or something nasty like that, it'll burn and I'll know you're not you..._

The words floated crazily in his mind.

 _There's something about her that's off... she's not what you think she is..._

Oh.

 _Can't we have a year of peace?_

Oh, no.

* * *

 **Reviews – especially constructive criticism – are always very much appreciated! Thank you!**


	10. Chapter 10

**A huge thank you to TARDIS landed at 221b, dogman999, OtakuDrag0n, jayswing96, Established Insanity, war sage, Akayuki Novak, luv-blonde-bunny, DarkKitsuneFluffy, Lathea, Skendo, Sailor Pandabear, Xanoka, and draco7347 for your awesome reviews!**

 **If you have any questions about the story so far (e.g. things you don't understand or feel were not explained properly) please PM me and I will get back to you as soon as possible. I can't promise to answer all of them, but I will do what I can.**

 **Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me except for parts of the story line and my little twists. Things you recognize are probably from the books or TV show.**

* * *

BOOK ONE

Chapter X

* * *

Harry pulled himself together as well as he could and hoped he hadn't given himself away too badly.

"Are you okay?" he asked, anxious for a different reason than he hoped she would draw from it. "Come on, I'll help you clean up. I'm sorry."

Ginny shifted her hand to cover the cut completely.

"No," she said curtly. "I'm fine. Why are you waving a knife around anyway? This is a main hallway. You'll end up poking someone's eyes out."

He shoved the knife into his pocket, his mind spinning frantically for a plausible story.

"It's from... a friend," he explained. Victor was sort of a friend. "He was a soldier," fighting a supernatural war, right? "and he gave it to me," that was true, "before he... um... died."

Somehow his little tale didn't sound too convincing. Fake Ginny seemed rather suspicious but twisted her face into a sympathetic smile that looked too painful to be genuine.

"Oh, I'm sorry." He highly doubted that. "How?"

His mind blanked out.

"How?"

"Did he die?" she added patiently.

Right. How _had_ Victor not-died?

"Cancer!" he exclaimed, with far too much enthusiasm. He coughed. "It was a few years ago. Anyway, what did you come down for? Are you sure you don't need help with that cut? I'm most awfully sorry."

"I'm down here because I live here," said Ginny flatly. "In case you forgot. And no, I don't need help. It doesn't even really hurt."

"Okay," Harry agreed quickly, nodding. "Okay. Well, I've got to go. Homework... and stuff."

Homework was a good excuse for anything.

He made a vague hand motion before remembering the earlier mishap. He stuffed both hands in his pockets and hurried down the chilly corridor in the opposite direction from Ginny, inwardly cringing at his horrible acting abilities. It was impossible for her not to have seen his reaction and clumsy backpedaling.

How was he supposed to tell Ron that his baby sister wasn't his baby sister, but a monster who for all he knew had eaten Ginny alive? Or sucked her blood (no, that was vampires)? What did shapeshifters do to their victims? Why hadn't he asked Victor?

His mind whirled.

And of course the number one question was _how was he supposed to get rid of it_?

His silver knife could probably kill the beastly thing, but he balked at the thought of killing something, even a monster. Demons he could exorcise. Ghosts were already dead. But shapeshifters were real, living, breathing creatures that looked exactly like humans... who might indeed be mutated humans. He didn't think he could stab one in cold blood, especially if it had the form of Ron's sister.

Ginny was a shapeshifter. How _was_ he supposed to tell Ron?

The answer was fairly simple. He wouldn't.

* * *

Lockhart's sparring club was absolutely awful. Harry flicked his wand at Hermione, who was standing across from him and tapping her foot impatiently.

" _Expelliarmus_."

Her wand gave a minuscule twitch. Harry huffed.

"You have to say it with more vigor," Hermione encouraged. "Like this... _Expelliarmus_!"

His wand flew out of his hand and spun wildly, landing on the floor several yards away. With a sigh, he retrieved it and jogged back to attempt the spell again.

" _Expelliarmus_!"

Hermione's wand gave a feeble jump and landed at her feet. Swiping it up, she smiled with disparaging condescension at his lack of skill.

"That's better."

"Oh, don't feed me that," said Harry crossly. "I know I'm absolutely awful. There's no need to sugarcoat it."

Hermione grimaced wryly.

"You are pretty bad," she admitted. "But if at first you don't succeed, try, try again. So go on. Try again."

" _Expelliarmus_!"

Hermione's wand didn't move an inch. Her smile faded.

"Oh. Well, this is only the first meeting."

Harry pursed his lips and glared at the disobedient bit of carved wood in his hand, daring it to cause him more trouble. As he'd established before, Lockhart's club was simply awful.

It wasn't just Defense, either. In Transfiguration, the rest of the class was starting to change blocks of wood into mice, and he was still stuck on that insufferable matchstick from last year. It was most embarrassing. Hermione didn't even have that little triumphant gleam in her eyes for besting him anymore. But if anything, it was his ego that suffered and nothing more, although he wondered what he would do in the magical world if he was completely inept at spells.

Maybe he could be like Hagrid. Despite his affection for the huge man, the notion was not particularly stimulating.

He reached the top of the stairs and hurried down, only just able to bound over the gradually widening crevice between it and the next flight. Unfortunately, as he landed, something snagged at his foot (what it was he had no idea... the area had been completely clear) and he stumbled.

"Damnation!"

He only had the presence of mind to curl himself into a tight ball as he rolled wildly down the stairs, hoping they wouldn't move and leave him to be smashed to bits on the ground below. His arm cracked loudly as it landed on a sharp edge and he landed on it, and he stifled a yelp of pain.

With a loud, spectacular thump, he slammed into a barrier, still doubled over as white-hot pain stabbed up his arm. He clutched it tightly and almost screamed as his fingers touched the most sensitive portion of jagged bone under his rapidly swelling flesh.

"Harry! Harry, are you all right?"

He didn't answer as he was occupied trying to bear the nearly unbearable pain.

 _It'll stop in a bit. It'll stop in a bit. Just hang in there._

He was probably going to faint. What an intrepid, heroic Boy-Who-Lived he was.

He fainted.

* * *

" _Harry_..."

"Shh," he mumbled, turning into the soft thing that was drawn up to his chin.

" _Harry_!"

He opened one eye.

"What? Who is it?"

Ron's freckled face peered down at him.

"You've been out for the past two hours," he observed. "How do you feel?"

"Feel?" His head gradually cleared. "Oh, you mean my arm."

"Yes, I mean your arm," said Ron briskly. "You must have smashed your bloody head against the wall as well if you don't remember."

Harry gingerly lifted his arm and was surprised to find that, despite the lingering soreness, it was all right. He twisted it back and forth and stared.

"Why isn't it broken?"

"Madam Pomfrey fixed you up," Ron explained. "Lockhart was trying to caste some healing spell but he was totally clueless, so she told him off. You had a narrow squeak."

It was obvious from the muted admiration in his voice that the aforementioned nurse had risen rather high in his favor. Harry poked his arm, still marveling at the bones that were neatly set in place, and winced. Evidently it hadn't completely healed yet.

"Why'd you fall, anyway?"

"I tripped."

"That's it?" asked Ron incredulously. "You just tripped, like that? That's a whole new level of clumsy, Harry."

"I wasn't being clumsy," said Harry indignantly. "I could have sworn something grabbed my foot."

"Right."

Ron sounded doubtful.

"Honestly. But I didn't see anyone afterward."

"Mm. Yeah. Well, I'm going to get Hermione. She'll want to know that you're awake."

So Ron seemed to think he was the biggest klutz on earth. But Harry could still feel the fingers latching onto his legs and yanking, and it was ringing a bell in the far recesses of his mind...

 _Crack_...

He winced, remembering the similar crack as his arm snapped beneath him.

"Harry Potter!"

It dawned on him quite suddenly. Why, the little swine.

"Dobby," he said, fiercely. "What are you doing here?"

"Dobby heard Harry Potter was hurt," Dobby squeaked. "He wanted to see how he was."

"I didn't know word got around that quickly," Harry replied, very dryly.

The elf looked guilt-ridden.

"Dobby is..."

"Dobby is an ass!" Harry exploded.

He had been willing to overlook the letter issue, but this had gone too far. It had hurt, damn it, and he'd be damned if he let this terror of a house elf get away with it (psychological perturbation seemed to induce bouts of foul language). Dobby cowered guiltily, looking not unlike a dog with its tail between its legs and clearly having realized that his deed had been found out.

"Dobby wanted Harry Potter to be safe," he whimpered.

"Yes, well, at this point the most dangerous thing that's happened to me is you, so I don't quite see the logic there! Just... just..." Harry spluttered, at a loss for words. "That's just not cool. I'd rather face the danger and be done with it than deal with you! You're a menace!"

Dobby vanished with an ashamed crack as Hermione burst in, followed closely by Ron.

"Harry, you've got to stop doing this," she said severely. "You've ended up in here two years in a row, and I really don't think..."

"It was Dobby again," Harry interrupted, thumping his uninjured arm against the mattress to get their attention. "He's taking extreme measures to make me go home. He left when you came in."

There was dead silence.

"You're joking, right?" asked Ron slowly.

Harry shot him a scathing look.

"I most certainly am not."

Ron shrugged.

"I don't know. That's your excuse for everything now."

Harry ignored that.

"I have to figure out some way to make him stop," he said despairingly. "I don't want to spend the whole year in the infirmary. What if he tries to break my neck next?"

"That might be uncomfortable," Ron agreed. "Sorry, mate, we don't have house elves. I don't have any advice for you."

"If only he would just tell you why," said Hermione thoughtfully. "I assume he hasn't yet?"

Harry sighed and leaned back against his pillow.

"No. He started hitting himself on the head because apparently he was 'disobeying his master' or something."

"So whoever who owns him knows?" Hermione questioned, with a calculating glint in her eyes.

"I expect so."

"How perfectly fascinating," she breathed, plopping down at the foot of his bed, and then she frowned. "And rather concerning as well. Do you think Dobby is trying to warn you about the thing that petrified Mrs. Norris?"

"Well, whatever it was, I'd like to shake its hand," said Ron. "That creature had eyes on the back of her bloody head. Good riddance, I say."

"Maybe..." Harry could practically see the gears turning in Hermione's mind. "Maybe Dobby belongs to the heir of Slytherin."

"According to Ron, _I'm_ the heir of Slytherin," said Harry bitterly.

"I never said that," Ron protested, adding kindly, "besides, Slytherin's heir would probably be a powerful wizard. You're absolutely rotten at spells."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

* * *

According to Ron, the Gryffindor girls' dormitories were protected by some magical sliding staircase. Harry took a deep breath and bounded up the steps.

Nothing happened. He exhaled. The Slytherins' were not, apparently.

There were good points to getting your arm broken, such as frequent, gratuitous breaks while the rest of the class was listening to humdrum lectures about goblin wars. He had escaped after explaining that he couldn't concentrate because his arm hurt too much (it had, a little).

Unfortunately, he didn't know where Ginny's room was, and there was only the slightest chance that she had left the notebook in it. But he wasn't one to let the opportunity slide away without doing something about it.

The faint scent of overly fragrant perfume was in the air and he tried his best not to breathe through his nose. There were too many doors. There was no way he would be able to ransack every room before the end of the period. He made a wild guess and assumed that the first years would be situated nearer the stairs.

It was pure, unadulterated luck that his conjecture turned out to be true. But no less than thirty-five students had been sorted into Slytherin this year, and about three-quarters of those had been girls, which meant he had to comb through more than twenty-five drawers that overflowed with _stuff_. Most of it he couldn't even identify, like weird little bottles filled with oddly colored liquid, and creams and beauty potions.

There it was.

In the twenty-fifth dresser, he saw the thin black booklet, carefully hidden beneath a mound of black robes. He dug it out eagerly – the search had lasted too long already – and pulled it open.

It was blank.

He stared at it, feeling his stomach drop. Had she expected him to look for it? Was this a decoy? Was it simply not hers?

There wasn't a single letter on the clean white pages. He shoved it onto the dresser rather viciously, and knocked over her small bottle of ink.

"Dash it all!"

Spinning around, Harry grabbed for something to mop up the stain that was spreading over the parchment. Or rather... the stain thatwasn't spreading over the parchment. The pages soaked up the ink rapidly, swallowing it until they were once more white and blank.

How curious.

After a split second of indecision, he picked up the quill that had tipped along with the bottle and dipped it in the remaining ink.

 _My name is John._

John was a nice, modest, unassuming name. If Ginny ever discovered someone had been playing with her book, she wouldn't be able to trace it back to him. The words stood out for a long moment before dissipating. He waited for something to happen.

 _ **Hello, John. My name is Tom.**_

His eyebrows flew up and he quickly scribbled out another sentence.

 _You're a book._

The words vanished and another took their place.

 _ **Magic.**_

That was rather obvious. He eyed the sentient paper thoughtfully.

 _Do you talk to Ginny at all?_

 _ **Not Ginny.**_

So... the book knew about the shapeshifter. This whole affair was getting curiouser by the minute.

Or perhaps Harry was just being paranoid and the book was simply saying that it did not speak to Ginny. Which meant sort of the same thing. He pushed the vague string of thoughts out of his mind.

 _Shapeshifter?_

 _ **Yes.**_

Harry wondered how a book would know something that wizards apparently didn't, especially if it itself had been created by one. It was probably bluffing. And it was ridiculous to be playing some screwed-up game of cat and mouse with a book.

 _Tell me what a shapeshifter is and maybe I'll believe you._

 _ **True to its name, it is able to imitate the appearance of other creatures, primarily humans.**_

All right, then. So it knew what a shapeshifter was. Still, that didn't make sense.

 _How are you able to talk to me?_

It didn't answer. Harry tried again.

 _What's a shapeshifter doing at Hogwarts?_

 _ **I cannot reveal secrets under confidence.**_

He doubted that a book had moral scruples. Of course, it wouldn't have occurred to him before that a book could make conversation either, so that didn't mean anything. Maybe it had a hidden agenda. Maybe it was planning something with Ginny.

 _Is the real Ginny still alive?_

There was a short pause, as if Tom was pondering whether or not he (Harry assumed the book was male... which was, again, ridiculous, because books were genderless) could answer without betraying the shapeshifter's "confidence."

 _ **Yes.**_

Thank goodness.

 _Where?_

There was no answer. Soft footsteps echoed in the hall outside, and Harry hurriedly replaced the ink bottle, quill, and Tom back to their respective spots, diving under Ginny's bed just as the door opened. He held his breath as shoes clacked against the cold stone floor. The bed creaked as Ginny sat down and opened Tom.

For a long while, there was no sound but the faint scratching of her quill, with brief pauses as Tom replied. Finally, she stood abruptly and pushed the book into her back pocket, striding out and slamming the door behind her. Harry scrambled out from under the bed and hurried after her.

He followed her through a number of corridors, sure to stay far enough behind that she wouldn't notice. She seemed to sniff the air now and then, suspiciously, like a dog, but each time he froze, and she went on.

Then she turned a corner.

When Harry turned the very same corner only a moment later, she was gone. He was left standing rather stupidly in the middle of the passage, at a complete loss as to what had gone wrong, and he circled a few times before heading back to the dorms.

All in all, it turned out to have been a pointless little adventure. At least he'd met Tom.

* * *

Christmas holidays were fast approaching, but before anybody left, Hogwarts had one last surprise for them. Colin Creevey, a scrawny Gryffindor whose signature apparatus was a chunky magical camera (it was so large that it seemed to upset his balance), was found petrified. Harry had seen him occasionally, mostly because Colin had a mild obsession with him, but he had never really known him.

Of course that just made everyone want to go home sooner. Harry felt shivers at the thought of Colin staying behind, all alone, in the infirmary for several weeks, and was glad when word went around that he would be transferred to St. Mungo's over Christmas. Mrs. Weasley sent increasingly alarmed owls to Ron, telling him to " _be careful_ " and to " _never walk anywhere alone_ " while not straying from her usual " _pay attention in class_ ," which was the most frequent and vehement.

Neither of Harry's investigations-in-progress was going the way he'd hoped. The shapeshifter was going home for Christmas with the rest of the Weasleys (hopefully its purpose wasn't to eliminate them) and he was nowhere near figuring out the identity of the heir of Slytherin, nor the location of the Chamber of Secrets. To tell the truth, he felt like he was swimming through muddy water that was getting muddier every second, and it was very disconcerting.

The public consensus was that Harry either was helping the heir or simply _was_ the heir, which made most students step carefully around him and watch their backs. Draco was the second most popular choice, as Malfoys were apparently eclipsed by Boys Who Lived. That provoked the ire of Draco, who Harry suspected wouldn't have minded actually being the heir (he assumed he wasn't, because if he was he would be walking around with a smug look on his face rather than one of impending wrath).

The heir business didn't affect Harry's daily life much – he was a solitary being, anyway – and Hermione didn't seem to care about it beyond indulging her scholarly curiosity, while Ron was ridiculously self-satisfied for thinking of the Harry option before anyone else had. He gloated over it when they talked in private.

Harry finished packing his things (only enough to fill a small bag) and headed to the Gryffindor dorms to fetch Ron and Hermione. It was a common enough occurrence that none of the frantically-rushing-about Gryffindors spared a second glance for him. He weaved through the mess of people, inwardly thanking his stars that he had ended up in Slytherin, which wasn't half as loud, and knocked on Ron's door.

"Come in!" shouted a muffled but clearly harried voice.

He pushed it open and promptly stepped into a Disaster.

Ron was sitting in the middle of the Disaster with a hopeless look on his face. He turned pleading eyes to Harry as he came in.

"What do I pack?" he demanded.

"Really?"

Ron blinked. "What?"

"This is just Christmas break," Harry explained. He showed him the backpack. "This is all I brought."

Ron looked aghast.

" _What_? So I've been _wasting_ all this time I could have perfectly spent _doing_ something packing for _no reason_."

"Basically," Harry agreed.

"Oh, I'm going to kill the twins."

Harry winced sympathetically at that – Common Sense said never to trust the infamous Weasley twins – and kindly helped him put away the clothes and books that littered the room.

"Where's Ginny?" asked Ron presently.

"Ah." Harry floundered. "Riiiight. She... um... she wasn't... done yet... I decided to come up before her."

He hadn't wanted to go for a stroll with Hogwarts' resident shapeshifter.

"Oh. Well, that's okay. She said she'd find us at the station."

Ginny went above and beyond the call of duty. Not only did she find them at the station, she followed them onto the train and sat in the same compartment the whole way. Harry disregarded Common Sense – the poor chap must have been close to giving up – and used the time to dig for information.

"Hello, Ginny."

She shot him a long, unblinking glance.

"Hello, Harry."

If he hadn't been under her scrutiny, he would have squirmed. Although it was really _because_ of her scrutiny that he was squirming. It was a never ending paradox.

"I meant to ask you about that book you're always writing in. Is it your journal?"

"Yes."

The answer was short and blunt.

"What do you..."

"Harry," said Hermione indignantly, digging her finger into his side. He stifled a yelp. "Don't ask questions about someone's diary. How would _you_ like it if people tried to extract your secret thoughts?"

"Thank you, Hermione," said the shapeshifter in a dignified tone.

As a matter of fact, Harry's secret thoughts were rather murderous. Hermione's meddling was bungling his undercover operation.

"Sorry," he mumbled, feeling anything but. "I was thinking of starting one myself – a journal, not a diary," he clarified hastily, "and I wanted tips since I've never done it before. Do you write the date and go right in, or do you pretend you're writing to someone? Like... like John?"

Suspicion flashed through Ginny's eyes.

"I usually write to someone. Secret friend, you know? His name's Tom, though, not John."

The boldness of her reply startled Harry, but she was staring shrewdly at him. He hid his surprise as well as he could.

"Apologies to Tom, then," he said, very meekly.

It seemed to allay her mistrust for the moment.

The car swayed and Harry rubbed the handle of his silver knife anxiously. Would they never arrive? He glanced at the clock above the window. It had only been half an hour since they'd left.

"How about a game of Exploding Snap?" Ron suggested, not at all ruffled by the chorus of groans that followed. "I bet none of you can beat me."

* * *

He stared at the phone, his eyes trailing up the long cord that connected to the wall and then falling back to the already worn scrap of paper in his hand. He reached out to pick it up and hesitated.

"Oh, hell."

He grabbed it before he could change his mind for the hundredth time and dialed the number, his fingers trembling. He held his breath as he waited.

It was picked up on the third ring.

" _Hello? Who's this?_ "

He breathed a sigh of relief at the familiar voice (it was kind of horrible to be walking alone in a sea of strangeness) and swallowed the thickness in his throat before answering.

"Hey. Hey, um, it's me."

" _John?"_

He scratched his neck nervously and started to pace, only to realize that the phone was still attached to the receiver. He halted.

"Yeah. Uh... about that? I... I sort of figured out that I'm not John. I mean, I knew that, of course. I just figured out what my name really is... I think."

" _Really?_ "

He wondered if the kid was as happy for him as he sounded or if he was just acting.

"Yeah. I was looking at those hospital books for patients and I took the Bible because... well, you know, I recognized it, and, uh..." he licked his lips, "first chapter. My name's Adam. Nice to meet you."

Harry laughed, the sound traveling through the speakers as clear as a bell, and Adam found himself actually grinning.

" _That's great, Adam. You look a lot more like an Adam than a John._ "

"Yeah, I kind of thought that, too."

" _Any other sudden revelations while I was gone?_ "

"Nope. No, that was it. I still don't know my last name. But it feels good. Makes me feel like an actual person instead of just nobody. By the way, how was your school? You said it was a boarding school?"

He could almost feel Harry's hesitance.

" _It was good_ ," he said, finally. " _A little hectic, with all the homework and... other stuff_." His voice sounded a little strangled and Adam wondered what the "other stuff" was. " _But okay, all around. Do you have any plans for Christmas?_ "

Adam stared around at the empty flat with a sort of empty feeling in his stomach. Hospitals might help amnesiacs find housing and other necessities, but they didn't exactly hold their hands and go friend-hunting with them.

"It doesn't look like it."

* * *

He straightened his tie and stepped back, gruffly clearing his throat.

"You look okay, man."

Sam chuckled nervously.

"Dean, you think..."

"Oh, shut up, squirt. Get going."

"Jerk."

Sam's voice shook. Dean grinned at him encouragingly (he wouldn't admit that he felt a little skittish as well) and slapped him on the back.

"Bitch."

* * *

 **Eheheheheh. Teasers and Winchesters are strong with this chapter. Have fun guessing.**

 **I gave you guys an actual answer for once, instead of just hints! One of you guessed Adam, but I was cracking up before that because it was _so freaking typical_ that everyone would forget him. Anyway. The poor kid had to get out of the Cage sometime. Those of you who guessed Castiel... well, he doesn't have blond hair. Don't worry, though, Cas will show up sooner or later.**

 **Reviews – especially constructive criticism – are always very much appreciated! Thank you!**


	11. Chapter 11

**This is very important, guys. Am I writing too much Victor, or does he not seem to fit in properly? I don't want him to be that OC that keeps popping up unwanted everywhere in the story.**

 **I loved all your responses to the explosion of the Adam bomb. It was the first of many plot twists to come and I'm glad you seem to have had an overall positive response to it. I know a lot of people dislike Adam for being the extra Winchester, which I understand, but I always felt kind of sorry for him. The guy might still be in the Cage (unless Season 11... the premiere... the trailer... the archangels... the Darkness... CAGE OPENS?! LUCIFER AND MICHAEL BACK?! I only saw the trailer for it but I'm really hyped!).**

 **Thanks to my reviewers: kaida171, MasterNinjaPie, anonyme-inconnue, dogman999, Lathea, white collar black wolf, OtakuDrag0n, luv-blonde-bunny, Guest, Guest, ThatDork, hgku, candinaru25, Sailor Pandabear, Skendo, amc, from-silence, Psyka, and just-another-crack-in-the-wall. You are amazingly wonderful people.**

 **Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me except for parts of the story line and my little twists. Things you recognize are probably from the books or TV show.**

* * *

BOOK ONE

Chapter XI

* * *

 _There was no color; even the light was grayish. Absolute nothingness spread in all directions. It was unescapable; he knew, he had tried. They had tried. It hadn't worked, and neither dared to try again because then the other would have received the brunt of the backlash._

 _Then the other was gone, and he didn't have time to try because he was kept occupied for what felt like centuries. In the midst of the pain and screaming (was it him making that animal-like noise?), he forgot eventually that the other had ever even been there._

 _It was cold. Freezing cold without wind. Ice encrusted his numb, blueish fingers, and when the One came closer, everything got colder._

 _There was no death. That should have been all there was left, after losing everything, but even oblivion had been taken away._

 _He shivered, wishing that getting out hadn't all been a dream, that he wasn't alone in this hellhole (he would chuckle at the applicability of the term if he wasn't so cold), and he cringed at the silence. Silence never meant anything good. He curled in on himself, shivering and trying not to look at his mangled limbs and the bloody lumps of flesh surrounding him (he also tried not to remember that it was his bloody flesh), too exhausted to sob._

 _It was a pity that death didn't exist in the one place it was most wanted._

 _And it was really, really cold._

 _Drrrrrrrring._

Adam jolted awake, shivering violently, and snatched blindly for his covers. He was freezing cold, and wind was blowing on his face...

Wait, wind?

His eyes flew open and settled on the open window, the curtains waving in the chill winter breeze. With a shudder – he'd had a horrible dream... thank goodness it was already fading from his memory – he stood up and slammed it shut. The lock rattled loosely as he twisted it.

 _Drrrrrrrring._

He jumped. Right. The phone had woken him up. He grabbed it, stifling a yawn, and spoke rather snappishly.

"Who is it?"

There was only the faint beeping of the tone. It rapidly became more urgent and he hastily put it back on the receiver.

 _Drrrrrrrring_.

What the hell?

His slow mind tried to process the mysterious source of the ringing.

What rang in a house?

Not the phone, apparently.

Ooh.

He trundled through the hall with his comforter wrapped around his shoulders, dragging sluggishly behind him (and probably gathering who-knew-what from the rented floor), and yawned again, hugely. People weren't supposed to visit this early in the morning. He tried to look through the peephole, remembered he didn't have a peephole, and opened the door.

It made a very loud thud but didn't open, and he stared at the uncooperative handle stupidly for several long moments.

 _Drrrrrrrring._

"Oh, geez," he complained to the empty hall. "I'm trying."

 _The lock, idiot._ He turned it.

"What the hell are you doing here..."

He trailed off. Harry was standing outside his flat wearing an extremely vibrant green sweater and a wide grin, with some guy standing behind him who looked about as grumpy as Adam felt. Well, as grumpy as Adam had felt before his one friend had appeared outside his door for no reason. Now he was simply confused.

"Am I forgetting something? I wasn't expecting..."

Harry beamed at him.

"Happy Christmas!"

Adam blinked. Once. So he _had_ forgotten something.

"Oh."

Christmas. He stared at the melting snowflake on Harry's sweater.

 _Cold. Ice creeping up his arms and his legs, slowly freezing them, turning them black. Ice digging into his chest. Screaming. Throat raw. No death._

"Adam?"

He realized abruptly that he had forgotten to breathe. Harry looked slightly concerned. Adam took a gulp of air and shoved his hands into his pockets to hide their shaking.

"Ah. Come in." He frowned and shook his head to clear it. What was wrong with him? "Uh, yeah," he added as an afterthought, "Merry Christmas."

"Are you coming, Victor?" Harry called, already having seated himself on Adam's lumpy couch.

The man – Victor – seemed reluctant.

"I'm all right. I'll come back for you later."

"No, honestly," Adam put in hurriedly. "I'm not exactly prepared, but you're welcome to stay."

Victor shot a baleful glare at Harry, who remained oblivious, and strode in. Adam closed the door uncertainly behind him and turned to observe his impromptu Christmas visitors. He had completely forgotten about the holiday, which was saying a lot considering how his co-workers had been jabbering about their plans for weeks.

"Why are you in your pajamas?" Harry asked curiously.

"Because it's only... holy crap! It's already noon!"

Victor snickered, and Harry seemed to remember that he hadn't introduced them yet.

"Victor," he said quickly, "this is Adam, and, um, Adam, this is Victor Weismann. He's my uncle-by-marriage."

Adam gave Victor an awkward nod.

"Nice to meet you." He jerked his head in the direction of his bedroom and nearly dislodged the comforter from his shoulders. "I'm going to change. I didn't know you were coming."

Harry frowned.

"Really? I'm sorry, I wanted to surprise you. Didn't think you'd still be asleep."

Adam shrugged.

"It's okay. You knocked me out of a weird-ass nightmare, so we're good."

Victor perked up at that, for some unknown reason, and his eyes started to scan the room, methodically and deliberately. Adam watched the process in confusion before remembering he was supposed to be changing, and he retreated to mull over the unexpected situation.

"... 'amnesia happens to be a real medical condition that doesn't necessarily have connections to the supernatural,'" Harry was mimicking a high falsetto as Adam returned.

He paused outside the door to listen.

"Shut up," Victor's voice returned mildly. "That was true, anyway. It doesn't _necessarily_."

"Then why were you acting like a sniffy bloodhound a couple seconds ago? Seriously, a nightmare isn't even suspicious."

"You're a little sh..."

Adam's entrance halted whatever expletive would have followed. He cleared his throat and started to rummage through his pantry.

"I don't have much," he said apologetically. He pulled out a can and wrinkled his nose at it. "Do you like... lentil soup?"

Victor looked appalled at the prospect. Adam winced and tossed the can to the back, feeling almost thankful. Beans were disgusting bits of mushy disgustingness and he had no idea why he even had them. Probably one of those so-called charitable donations. The thing about charitable donations was that they were donations for a freaking reason.

"Um... I can make tea?" he suggested, and scowled upon further investigations into the cabinet. "Except I don't have any."

"It's not like we came here for food," said Harry indignantly. Victor mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "speak for yourself."

Adam waited for him to say why they _had_ come, and then realized he was probably supposed to know already.

"So, Christmas, huh?" he commented, lamely, and Victor snorted.

It was shaping up to be an awesome visit.

* * *

Harry twisted his hand in his sweater and glanced at Victor sideways.

"I need your help."

"Look," said Victor, not taking his eyes off the lightly snow-dusted road. "I've already given up a perfectly delicious family dinner to help you in the spirit of Christmas, and, if I might add, I drove fifty miles to do it. So I really think I've fulfilled my quota of..." he caught Harry's eyes and stopped. "Fine. Fine, okay? What is it?"

"Advice," Harry explained quickly. He lowered his voice. "I think there's a shapeshifter at my school. I did the silver test on it by accident and it..." he grimaced, "it _sizzled_."

"Rummy school," Victor remarked lightly. "And where do I come in?"

"You're a hunter."

"An astute observation."

"How do you deal with shapeshifters?"

"I generally stab them in the heart and burn their bodies."

"Oh." Harry pondered that. "What if you don't want to kill them?"

"I do want to kill them," Victor said bluntly.

"Oh. There's no other option?"

"Harry, shapeshifters are monsters." His hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Monsters can't be reasoned with. If I could, I would, but I can't. You don't think I've tried? But that was before I learned to shoot first and ask questions later."

Harry pursed his lips, staring very hard at the reflection of Victor's white knuckles, and pretended away the sick feeling in his stomach.

"There's no other option," he echoed, but this time as a statement instead of a question. "But there's got to be something else."

"With that attitude, you'll be dead before you turn twenty."

"You see, that's why I like talking to you so much," said Harry, lolling his head to stare at the hunter wryly. "You're refreshingly optimistic."

"Realistic," Victor corrected sternly, obviously having none of his attempt to lighten the mood. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel with nervous energy. "If you're not going to take my advice, than why did you ask me for it?"

 _Because I thought you'd give me a better answer._ Harry didn't voice the thought. He turned back to gaze out the window thoughtfully.

"You never did tell me," Victor continued, after several minutes of silence. "How did you get into hunting?"

Harry pressed his forehead against the ice cold glass and closed his eyes. He hated thinking about Neville. Fear still lingered somewhere inside him... fear that the nightmares would return, but mostly fear that he would suffer the same fate. _Blood splattered. Wide, staring..._

"Harry?"

He started, his elbow slipping and slamming against one of the buttons lined up on his door. The window screeched down and for several moments Harry was occupied trying both to close it and to brush off the pile of snow that was gathering in his lap.

"Oh. I, uh..." he cleared his throat uncomfortably. His hands were wet. He wiped them vigorously against his pants, trying to get rid of the slippery feeling. "I..."

"It's one of _those_ stories, isn't it?" Victor sounded tired suddenly. "You don't need to talk about it then."

"What about you?" asked Harry, gratefully.

"Nothing, to be honest. Just a long line of ancestors, all hunters, and I naturally joined the family business. But I'm the black sheep of the clan."

"Why?"

"It was my mother's side that hunted," Victor told him, with uncharacteristic openness. "The MacDowells. Then my dad came along, some remotely German chap who was a fourth generation hunter rather than a fourth century hunter, and dragged Mum off to London from that godforsaken Scottish town the other MacDowells lived in. Now I'm the distant cousin that nobody talks about."

"You don't speak to them?"

The notion seemed odd to Harry. If he had relatives, he would try to see them at least once a week, and wouldn't be at all opposed to seeing them every day. But it was probably different when you actually had them.

Right, the Dursleys. It made more sense now.

Victor shrugged.

"Family is complicated."

"Wouldn't you _rather_ still talk to them?"

"Not particularly," said Victor shortly, their sharing session evidently over. "There's your house."

The lights were out; Aunt Petunia plainly did not hold candlelight vigils for her wandering nephew. Harry nearly slipped on the lightly iced sidewalk, but caught the car door to balance himself. He could practically see Victor biting back an admonishment.

"Thanks for driving me. Sorry about your dinner, by the way."

"Just so long as you remember I'm not your chauffeur."

"Sure." Harry smiled. It was getting easier to see through the grousing and sardonicism – all the bullshit – but he wasn't about to tell Victor, especially as he happened to value his own health and wellbeing. "Happy Christmas."

* * *

There didn't seem to be any alternative. Digging the heels of his hands into his eyes, Harry pushed forward relentlessly. If only Hogwarts had actual lightbulbs instead of the horrible, sputtering, guttering candles. There had to be a solution. And he had to find it.

Number one, because he'd never killed anything before and he had absolutely no desire or intention to do so in the near future. Or just in the future in general. Because he was a twelve-year-old boy and not a psychopath, despite his inclination for hunting.

Number two, because he doubted Ron would feel particularly inclined to be friends with him if he killed his sister, even if she was actually a shapeshifter posing as his sister. Was she even a she? Maybe she had been born a he. How did anatomy work out with those types of creatures?

Number three, because he also doubted that Hermione would want to have anything to do with him.

Number four, because he would probably be expelled.

Number five, because he would probably go to prison after being expelled.

Number six, because he didn't want to kill anything.

Number seven, _because he didn't want to kill anything._

Sometimes he hated Victor. He flipped page two hundred and forty-seven of _Magical Creatures; the Complete Encyclopedia_ and yawned loudly.

"Shut up," somebody grumbled, voice muffled.

Apparently his roommates did not appreciate his late night forays for information. Slytherin wasn't known for its patience. Come to think of it, he doubted any of the Houses was known for its patience, except perhaps Hufflepuff. He should have been sorted into Hufflepuff.

He rubbed his eyes again to clear the little black spots dancing around them, beckoning for him to go to bed, and turned page two hundred and forty-nine, realizing belatedly that he hadn't read the previous two pages. He slammed _Magical Creatures_ closed sullenly.

" _Research_."

This scathing, one-word conclusion to his... well, _research_ riled his already sorely tried roommates even further, and he got a face full of a hex that sent him into a raucous sneezing fit.

"Dammit, Mordhill, you blithering idiot, you've made him even louder!"

"Shut up, Potter!"

"Hah...haa _schew_!"

* * *

Too late, he felt a hand, light as air, snatch something out of his back pocket. His hands sprang back to grab the thief's wrist, but it was yanked away, and, grinning, Ginny waved the silver knife in his face.

"Pretty little tool you've got here."

She knew. A burst of irrational anger towards himself blinded him for a moment. How did they always know? He had been so careful; each time it was for nothing. Neville had known, and now Ginny knew, and how was he ever supposed to do anything right if everybodyknew? Of course that also meant that he was completely unprepared for this turn of events.

 _You should have made a back-up plan_ , a little voice in his mind chided him knowingly, sounding unnervingly like Victor.

 _Shut up._

Ginny spun the blade on her finger, giving it an approving nod.

"Nice balance," she remarked, as if they weren't both about to attack and possibly kill the other (because while Harry didn't want to kill anything, he didn't want to be killed either). "You have good taste."

He wasn't the one who had bought the knife, but there was no need to give her more information than was necessary. His fingers twitched and he fought down the boiling desire to rip the knife out of her hands.

"Thanks," he replied stiffly, going along with whatever game she was playing.

Her grin dropped to something more menacing and she finished the spin with a light flip, holding the blade in her palm and gazing at its shining surface.

"But," she said softly, "I don't appreciate your meddling. If you leave me alone, I'll pretend this never happened. I promise. If you don't..." she shrugged, " _tempi pour toi_."

He didn't miss the absence of a promise not to hurt him. Her offer – pretending this particular incident hadn't happened – was not very useful in the long run.

"Give me back my knife first, and then we'll talk," he said coldly, with more confidence than he felt. He held his breath as her eyes swept upward, bland and unreadable. She smiled again, cheerfully, all traces of ominousness disappearing from her visage.

"No, I think I'll keep it. I like it."

Something inside him snapped and he lunged at her, but his hands went through empty air where the knife had been a moment before. Swinging his fist in a swift arc, he slammed it into her jaw, sending her flying back ten paces. The knife clattered to the ground, and they both dove, fingers closing around it at the same time.

With his usual luck, he had snagged the actual blade rather than the handle, and it sliced through his palm with the razor-like sharpness he had admired up until now. He nearly lost his hold.

"Agh!"

He stumbled back, still clutching the knife. Ginny was also still latched onto it, and it was slick with blood (unfortunately his own) and tricky to keep a hold on, especially with one hand indisposed. The tip gouged his already wounded palm and he bit back a yell of pain.

Then suddenly Ginny released her end, and with an inward swell of triumph he tackled her down, both of them landing with a heavy thud on the hard stone floor.

"Harry, what are you _doing_?"

He froze, his fingers gripping the handle, poised in midair over Ginny's head.

This was bad. This was very, very bad.

He turned slowly, acutely aware of the fact that he looked very like a serial killer, dripping blood and holding a knife and pinning what appeared to be an innocent young girl to the ground.

"Um... hey?" he ventured weakly, as a rapidly paling Ron stared back at him.

And all hell broke loose.

* * *

Luna frowned and stood up, her chair screeching behind her and bringing to a full stop whatever lecture had been going on. She had been too busy drawing the little, gold, glowing sparks that had been hovering near one of the students' chests to pay attention.

"I need to go," she explained, and accordingly left her goggle-eyed professor and fellow students, clutching her book bag tightly and hoping nothing too bad was in the process of happening.

 _Harry, what have you done now?_

* * *

"What the bloody _hell_?" Ron squeaked again.

Harry could feel the blood pounding in his head as he was pushed roughly off the shapeshifter by his friend who thought he was the shapeshifter's brother and was most likely quite angry. Scratch that, Ron was _extremely_ angry.

 _You could lie!_ his brain told him frantically.

 _Yeah_ , mental Victor snarked back, _how about if you tell him you weren't actually sitting on top of her and about to stab a knife through her skull._

 _More options might be necessary_ , suggested a third voice.

What a time to start developing multiple personalities.

"This is not Ginny!" he blurted out.

Ron shot him an outraged look, dragging Ginny up and shielding her protectively. Harry snatched up the knife from where he had dropped it and stood, upon which Ron's face turned even whiter and he backed several steps away. Harry hurriedly stuffed his weapon into his pocket and held up his hands placatingly.

"Ron, listen to me," he said steadily, and pointed an accusing finger at Ginny, who in spite of her cowering had a triumphant gleam in her eyes. " _That's not your sister._ She's dangerous. You've got to believe me."

"You're a psychopath!" Ron shouted, yanking out his wand and brandishing it in his direction.

Harry scooted a little closer to one of the corridor's little alcoves (hopefully he would have time to duck into it before the hexes started flying), making sure to keep his raised hands in full sight.

"Trust me, Ron," he pleaded, "I wasn't..."

" _Trust_ you? You were trying to kill my sister, and you want me to _trust_ you?"

Harry opened his mouth, found nothing to say, and closed it again.

"Would it help," he asked defeatedly, "if I told you that she's a shapeshifter?"

"No, it wouldn't," Ron snapped, his wand hand twitching dangerously.

"I didn't think so."

"Yeah, well, you thought right." Ron turned to Ginny, who was still watching them wordlessly. "Go get Professor McGonagall, Gin, and Hermione... and Dumbledore, and Snape, for heaven's sake, just get someone!"

Obediently, Ginny retreated. Ron turned back to glare at him fiercely, and for the first time, Harry felt almost afraid of him.

"No! Stop, you've got to believe me!"

He stepped forward unthinkingly, but Ron jabbed the point of his wand at him.

"Stay there!"

Harry froze for the second time and stared down at the wood stick mere inches away from his chest. Already Ginny's footsteps were fading, and he could hear her voice calling for the professors, and _he had no time_.

"I'm sorry, Ron," he said quietly, and looked up just in time to see Ron's shocked expression as he smashed his fist into the other boy's jaw.

Harry stepped over Ron's unconscious body and wrung his hand gingerly. All the books and comics and action movies never said how much it hurt to punch someone. His knuckles felt like they were going to split open.

He didn't even have time to feel guilty over knocking his best friend unconscious. Retrieving his knife from where it had once again fallen (it was too heavy for the weak fabric of his trouser pocket), he made off down the hall, hoping desperately that Ginny would get lost, or that the professors were all busy, or that something would just give him time.

It vaguely registered that he was heading down the same corridor through which he had followed Ginny what felt like so long ago. Hogwarts was a damned maze. Two years he had spent here and he was still getting lost in the innumerable passages. He hoped he wasn't running around in circles.

He needed somewhere to hide, and wait, and plan, before he was dragged off for attempted murder. He could already hear the low rumble of voices nearing him.

Then someone grabbed his sleeve and he jumped.

"Harry, come here."

"Luna?" was all he could gasp, and then she drew him through a doorway, and he was safe.

* * *

Adam jolted awake again, his shirt drenched in sweat. He buried his face in his hands and drew a shaky breath of relief. The dreams were evolving from weird to simply _horrifying_ , and the worst was that he still couldn't remember what they were about. Every time he woke, he expected to be there again.

Where and what was "there"?

He tried to fall back asleep, but he couldn't. His body must have been subconsciously terrified of falling into the dreamworld (not only subconsciously, either).

So instead he stood, and, with a vague feeling of familiarity, he walked to the empty kitchen, feet slapping hollowly against the hardwood floors, took out the sharpest kitchen knife he could find – which wasn't saying much as most of what he could afford was irretrievably crummy – and drew it across his palm. He watched the blood pool up around the blade with mild interest but a great deal of determination, and returned to his room.

Drew on his wall.

Stared at the symbol freshly inscribed in blood (it was vaguely familiar as well, but why?).

Fell asleep, finally, with his still red-stained hand hovering next to it.

* * *

"Don't be a wuss, Sam, geez," said Dean, rolling his eyes. "She's all yours. Just ask her."

"But everyone's going to be looking at me," Sam protested weakly.

Dean snorted up the rest of his cup of alcohol (how had he gotten his hands on that, anyway? Sam had made sure there was none...) and promptly started to cough. Sam flushed and grinned nervously as a number of eyes turned in their direction.

" _Dean_!" he hissed, poking his brother sharply. "Dean, quit it!"

Dean hacked one last time, spewing the remnants of his drink all over the tablecloth.

"Thanks for the sympathy, Sammy. Yeah, my brother's over here in the corner _choking to death_ and I'd better break his ribs so that he doesn't _embarrass_ me."

"Shut up."

"You shut up and go ask that sweetheart to dance, or else _I_ will."

Sam glared at him and stood up.

"You're stupid,' he said vehemently.

Dean choked on another mouthful of whiskey (ah... he'd snuck it in in one of the hundreds of liquor flasks that Sam thought he'd gotten rid of) and laughed silently and helplessly while Sam circled the table and came face to face with _her_.

She was gorgeous. She smiled up at him brilliantly and suddenly he was completely tongue-tied.

"Do you want to..." he choked on nothing (maybe Dean was cursing him in retaliation to his total lack of sympathy). "Do you want to dance?"

* * *

 **So Adam is having Cage issues, Harry is having murdering-and-misunderstanding issues, and what the hell are Sam and Dean doing anyway? The mystery intensifies!**

 **To make things clearer, I am not recreating scenes from the TV show. They are of my own making. So don't bother with fruitless memory searches, and don't worry, you aren't getting Alzheimer's.**

 **Reviews – especially constructive criticism – are always very much appreciated! Thank you!**


	12. Chapter 12

**This is Second Year's climax (definitely not the story's, though... I don't think I'm even a quarter done with _that_ ) and it's especially long at over 5000 words.**

 **Thank you to all my reviewers! You're just swell. And here is my tribute to you: kaida171, Lathea, luv-blonde-bunny, Psyka, Xanoka, lunaz, Sailor Pandabear, VanriddleZ, and OtakuDrag0n. Thanks again for your encouragement... it means a lot.**

 **Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me except for parts of the story line and my little twists. Things you recognize are probably from the books or TV show.**

* * *

BOOK ONE

Chapter XII

* * *

"Luna?" Harry spun around wildly as the door clicked behind him. "Luna, what are you doing? What's happening?"

She had pulled him into some hidden passageway. It was cool and very quiet, with a musty, bookish smell, and dim light streamed through what looked like dusty windows but couldn't be – they were practically in the center of Hogwarts, and any windows would have looked out into the hall. The walls and floor, like the rest of the castle, were solid stone, and formed a passage similar and parallel to the one outside the door. Across from him was a line of widely dispersed, burnished oak doors, all closed. Their handles were covered in a layer of thick gray dust... all but one, which had a rough handprint pressed into the grime.

"You're safe here," Luna told him, dusting off her hands busily. "I don't know what exactly you've gotten yourself into this time, but you have to stay put now. You're all thumbs," she added severely, "and you can't keep making mistakes. You'll suffer for them and keep on suffering until you learn your lesson."

Harry stared at her for a moment in silence.

"I'm not clumsy," he said finally, wondering half-heartedly whether that had been the main point of the lecture.

Luna gave him a withering look, two dangling... things – were they supposed to be _radishes_? – bobbing disapprovingly from her ears.

"Clumsiness is the least of your worries," she informed him crisply. "Now what just happened? I had to leave class to come after you."

After a split-second of panic (what if she didn't believe him? But this was Luna, who thought she could see Nargles and read magazines upside-down... and apparently wore radish earrings, not to mention the fact that she had been the first to realize there was something wrong with Ginny), Harry stuffed his hands into his pockets resignedly and began his tale of woe.

"Ginny is a shapeshifter," he said bluntly, and waited for Luna to run outside shrieking for the professors. She gazed at him, unperturbed, for several long moments.

"And?" she prompted.

Why was he even surprised?

"She stole my silver knife and so I tried to get it back," he explained, clenching and unclenching his sweaty fists nervously. "Of course, she wasn't too happy about that and we started to scuffle, and I was going to stab her. Ron came in and," he shrugged, concluding mournfully, "everything sort of went downhill from there."

She didn't answer for a long while, examining his face thoughtfully, and it suddenly struck him how silent it was in this cavernous hiding place. All he could hear was the light sound of their breathing... and, wait, there was something else. He stiffened.

"Do you hear that?"

Luna tilted her silvery head and listened attentively.

"It's a voice. There's someone in here with us, behind one of these doors," she guessed, turning on her heel quickly and striding towards the door with the less-dusty handle, her thin hands gripping it with steely strength. She tugged it open. "Come on."

"Maybe we should scout it out before heading right in," Harry suggested warily.

"Don't be silly. If there was anything _really_ dangerous, we wouldn't have heard and we'd be dead or captured by now. No, whatever it is, it's not a threat."

"If you say so."

It was only chivalry that prompted him to go before her into the even dimmer room. He could barely see anything, and waved his hands blindly in front of him so that he wouldn't crash into a wall or corner. His precautions didn't save him from the nasty shock of tripping over a warm, wriggling lump on the floor.

"Luna, stop!" he gasped, and landed heavily, biting back a yelp as the jostling sent a spike of pain up from his cut hand.

Of course, it was startling to hear a yelp anyway, and he was slow to realize that it came from the lump itself. He crawled backwards, feeling for it, and clutched a limb.

"Light, Luna?"

He heard her soft voice a moment later.

" _Lumos_."

A pale white prick of light blinked into existence at the tip of her wand, illuminating her pointed face and calm eyes.

"Why didn't you do that sooner?" Harry asked irritably, pressing his oozing palm to his shirt.

"I didn't think of it," said Luna serenely. She peered downwards. "Oh, look, it's Ginny."

The off-handedness with which she said this caught him off guard.

"Who?"

"There."

He stared at the person whose leg he was holding, his grip slackening.

"Holy crap. Ginny!"

* * *

"It got me in Diagon Alley," Ginny whispered, hoarse from days of silence. She swallowed convulsively and rubbed her throat, although Harry had already long since pulled the thick, dirty rag from her mouth. "Then it tied me up and kept me in a dark room over some very loud place. I think it was a tavern, but I was blindfolded so I'm not sure."

She shuddered and curled her knees to her chest, burying her face in her arms.

"It's okay," said Harry, patting her back awkwardly and hoping he was being comforting. "You're free now. It's okay."

Ginny nodded as if trying to convince herself of that, and scooted a little closer to him.

"It moved me here after several days," she continued, her voice a little wobbly but steadier than it had been. She motioned to her head. "Probably because of this telepathic connection it has to keep up. I could feel it in my mind sometimes, digging around for information it needed to imitate me properly. I tried to block it, but it was too powerful. I don't understand how you found me. From what I could gather, this is a very well-hidden room. I didn't think anyone would ever find me."

Her voice cracked and she squeezed her eyes shut, trembling.

"Ah," said Harry, uncomfortably. "About that. I... um... well, I figured out that it was a shapeshifter – don't ask how, it's a long story – and I tried to attack it, but Ron saw me and thought it was you. I had to hide, and Luna found this place, and we heard you yelling through your gag."

"It's called the Room of Requirement," Luna put in helpfully from where she sat, cross-legged, on the hard floor. "I needed it, so it popped up."

"How?"

"I've heard stories about it," said Ginny, more calmly, and frowned. "But I didn't think it really existed. And how would you end up in the same place as me if you didn't already know I was trapped here?"

Harry looked between them. There seemed to be some element to the conversation that he wasn't aware of, and it felt vaguely ominous.

"What are you talking about?"

Luna shifted her unblinking gaze to meet his.

"She means," she said quietly, "that the Room of Requirement appears as whatever the searcher requires, and only if two different people are looking for exactly the same thing will it look the same to both of them."

It took him a couple moments to digest the rather complicated explanation.

"The shapeshifter was looking for somewhere to hide Ginny... but that's not what you were looking for. You were looking for somewhere to hide me. How did it show up as the same place?"

"Exactly. That's the question."

Harry eyed her, and although her face was perfectly impassive, he felt she wasn't telling him something. He got that impression from her a lot. It was unsettling.

"Whatever happened," Ginny broke in, "I'm most awfully glad it did. It was horrible in here, alone in the dark. It only fed me about... well, what _felt_ like every two days, but I was really hungry, so maybe it wasn't quite that far between."

Harry patted down his pockets. They were empty except for the silver knife, which had caused all the trouble and confusion in the first place, and a single blunt quill (why he had decided to stick it in his pocket, he had no idea).

"I have nothing," he said regretfully. "I'm sorry. I didn't expect this to happen."

"I've got a couple meat pasties if you want them."

Ginny's eyes lit up, and it was with visible effort that she restrained herself from snatching them from Luna's willing hands. While she ate, Luna took Harry's sleeve and led him to the side.

"I can't stay here," she said gravely, in a low voice. "They'll notice I'm gone, and then we'll both be stuck. I've got to go, and you have to keep Ginny here because the shapeshifter is still out there. It knows you're trying to kill it..."

"I'm trying to kill it?" Harry echoed. The thought hadn't struck him in all its entirety until now, and his earlier misgivings hit him like a slap on the face.

"You haven't got another choice. It's clearly not going to go away if you ask it to, and it will certainly try to kill you if it has the chance. Keep your knife on you at all times. You don't know when it'll figure out where you are and come looking for you."

"How do you even _know_ about this?"

She stared at him in silence for a long moment, and then gave him a small smile. Somehow, it lit up the room even more brightly than her spell had.

"I just do."

* * *

"Harry," Ginny asked timidly, after they had sat side by side in silence for what felt like days but was probably closer to a couple hours. "Harry, how do you know all this stuff? About shapeshifters and how to... to kill them? I only know because one was in my head."

It was oddly identical to the question he had only just posed to Luna. He folded his hands over his wand (he'd managed to conjure a tiny bit of light with the _Lumos_ spell... for heaven's sake, Luna was a _first_ year and she was already doing better than he) and tried to figure out where to begin.

"As I said, it's a long story," he began, and she interrupted with a wry chuckle.

"I doubt we'll be leaving this place anytime soon."

"True," he conceded, and pulled himself to his feet. "Come on, let's go. It's too dark in here; the fake windows will be better. I'll tell you out there."

Ginny was all too eager to leave her prison of so many months. The passageway was as dusty and dim as it had been when he'd first entered it, but it was better than the cold darkness of the room. It was also closer to the danger of both the shapeshifter and the professors' search, but Harry was willing to take the risk.

They started to walk, the corridor stretching before them endlessly, yards upon yards of stone looming around them, with countless, solid, wooden doors on one side and dusty, frosted glass windows on the other. It was eerily quiet.

"I think you heard about... Neville," said Harry hesitantly. It was difficult to get the name out. From the way she stiffened, he assumed she had. "He was possessed."

"Possessed?"

She seemed perplexed, and he reminded himself that most wizards were fairly clueless about Muggle religions and beliefs.

"By a demon."

"Demons aren't real. They're just nightmarish stories. Myths."

"They _are_ in stories," he agreed, fingering his knife. It was surprisingly hard to break the admittedly creepy habit. "But they're also real. And very ugly and dangerous."

She shivered and pulled her robes more closely around herself.

Still the doors, more and more and more doors. The endless corridor.

"All right. Suppose I believe they're real. Why would one possess Neville?"

"I don't know."

The lie came easily to his lips. He wanted so much to hide the fact that it was because of him that Neville had been possessed... had been murdered in cold blood, his throat slashed open in a dreadful, grimacing smile of death.

"Was he possessed when he died?"

Ginny's voice shook, just a little. Harry shook his head.

"No, I exorcised the demon," he told her, with grim satisfaction. "It's back in hell, or wherever nasty creatures like it end up. I hope it stays there, forever."

She didn't answer, and the only sound for several long minutes was the measured clump of their shoes hitting the floor. Each thud was echoed in both directions down the passage, creating a even more decidedly eerie atmosphere.

"Why did he die? Did a demon murder him?"

He was surprised, and a little disconcerted, at how quickly she made the connection.

"I would think so. He was starting to remember why they'd come..."

Something in the corner of his eye caught his attention and he halted in shock, grabbing Ginny's arm as she continued to walk forward.

"Wait, Ginny. Look."

She turned.

The knob of the door to their right had only the slightest sprinkling of dust, and there was the clear imprint of a hand on it. They stared at it quietly, and the silence seemed all of a sudden ever so slightly more oppressive.

"We're back where we started," Ginny stated, very quietly.

An unpleasant thrill ran down Harry's spine.

"That's impossible. The passage is straight. We can't be."

They simultaneously glanced back at the indeed very straight corridor and then looked each other in the eye, coming to a silent, unanimous decision.

"We should go back in," said Ginny, in a hushed tone. "I don't like this... I don't like it at all. It's worse than it was in the dark. Hurry."

But neither had time to move an inch before a thunderous explosion shook the Room of Requirement, sending both of them flying in opposite directions, and a dark, flickering, shimmering _something_ roared into being between them.

* * *

Luna flicked her blonde hair lightly over her shoulder as she walked towards Hermione, who was sitting next to Ron amid a pile of forgotten books. They were speaking in hushed voices as she neared them.

"I can't believe it," Hermione was saying. "He was really attacking her?"

Ron rubbed his reddish, swollen eyes distractedly.

"Yeah... I don't understand. Ginny didn't _do_ anything, Hermione, and even if she had, Harry was trying to stab her! What is he? Why would he do that? This is just... I... I don't..."

Hermione seemed at a loss for words as well, her gaze straying upwards and meeting Luna's with an expression close to despair.

"Luna!" she exclaimed, half rising in her seat. "It's Harry..."

Luna slid into the chair beside her.

"I heard."

"The professors are trying to find him now."

"They won't."

Hermione's brow furrowed.

"What... how do you know?"

Luna shrugged.

"I just don't think they will. And I think Harry had his reasons for acting the way he did."

"What?"

Ron's shout echoed through the library, and for once Madam Pince didn't quiet him. He clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening.

"He tried to kill my _sister_ ," he seethed, surging to his feet. "Excuse me, but I don't think any reason can fix or excuse _that_."

"What did he say to you before he... hit you on the head?" Luna asked patiently, having forgotten that Ron had not one, but two bones to pick with his – now possibly former – friend. That complicated matters.

"I don't really remember, because _he hit me on the head_!"

"Just try," Hermione urged. Her curiosity seemed to have been peaked. "Did he say anything at all in particular?"

Ron brushed her aside.

"Besides his nasty, meaningless little apology? No."

"He must have," Luna insisted. It would be better for them to come to the conclusion themselves.

Looking confused, Ron sat down again and rubbed his temple.

"Come to think of it," he admitted slowly, "he _did_ say something... I didn't think much of it because I was too angry... he said... Ginny wasn't Ginny? He said so twice. But that's nonsense."

"Not necessarily." Hermione's eyes gleamed with interest. "Maybe he meant she's someone who looks uncommonly like your sister."

"A twin?" suggested Ron, half-heartedly and very gloomily.

"Don't be ridiculous. A doppelgänger. An evil one."

"Now _you're_ being ridiculous."

"No," said Hermione, her voice rising in excitement. "No, I read about a certain witches and wizards who can change forms, or appearances, or something. They're called meta... metamorph... oh, where was it?"

She rifled through the closest stack of books and aha-ed triumphantly as she dragged out an old, worn, leather-bound text and turned to one of the middle pages.

"They're called _metamorphmagi_. Metamorphmagi are rare witches and wizards born with the ability caused by genes or mutation to change their appearances at will. That's one explanation for what he said, and it's perfectly plausible."

"That's complete rot."

"I think he was trying to tell you that's what she was," Luna added, feeling it was time to push their so far correct investigation onward. "His words make more sense that way."

"Or, you know, he could be a completely loony, psychopathic murderer."

Ron evidently was in neither a forgiving nor an understanding mood. Luna narrowed her eyes at him.

"You need to..."

But before she could finish, a deep rumble shook the very foundations of Hogwarts (but how? Magic was woven into its very walls... it was supposed to be practically _unshakeable_ ), rising to a tumultuous crescendo before halting abruptly.

That could mean nothing good.

* * *

"Harry! Harry, are you all right? I can't see you!"

Coughing up the dust that clogged his throat, Harry wiped his watering eyes and sat up, brushing himself off. His sides ached, his head hurt, and his hand was throbbing.

"Yeah," he called, as soon as he could, after gagging on a particularly large clump of dirt. "Yeah, I'm all right. What about you? And what _is_ this thing?"

He could hear equal parts relief and agitation in her voice as she answered from the other side of the dense, shifting mass between them.

"I don't know... I don't know... but I'm okay, thank goodness. Really dusty, but okay."

"Same here. Do you think we can walk through?"

He stood and edged nearer, but was careful to stay several feet away from it. The cloud-like formation was blocking the whole passageway, and it was completely black except for a pinprick of grayish light at the center.

"I don't really want to try."

He didn't really want to either, but there was no point in staying on opposite sides of the thing indefinitely. Harry took a deep breath and plunged a hand into it. It felt almost like an icy bath... no, more like icy mist. To his relief, it didn't hurt, and judging from Ginny's yelp of surprise, it went right through.

"I can see a... a hand now!"

He snorted at the ridiculousness of the situation and her comment, and wiggled his fingers.

"Good. That would be mine. You'll have to come to me, though, because the way out is on this side."

She grasped his wrist, but still hesitated. His hand was starting to feel numb.

"Couldn't you go through instead and we could walk around? I mean, the passage forms a loop anyway, right?"

"This is easier," said Harry hastily, glad for the excuse.

"Oh, dear. All right, here goes."

He could hear her take a very deep breath, and then she lunged through and was crashing into his chest. He had to catch his balance quickly so that they wouldn't both tumble to the ground. Ginny panted, still clutching his wrist.

"Okay, good," Harry gasped, taking a gulp of air. "Good. Neither of us is dead and we're both on the same side of whatever the bloody hell this thing is. Everything's going to work out fine."

Ginny coughed up a cloud of dust and grimaced.

"Ugh."

Her formerly bright orange-red hair was streaked grayish-brown, as were her face, her clothes, and her hands. Judging from the way she was staring at him, he was just as dirty. She coughed again, absently waving her hand through the ensuing second cloud of dust, and brushed off her shirt.

"Why would someone specifically want, or require, a dusty old passage?" she asked drearily. "It's about the worst place imaginable."

"Exactly. So no one else would think of the same thing and find their stuff."

And then they both remembered what – _who_ , really – exactly the "stuff" had been this time, and fell silent. Ginny let out a nervous giggle.

"Do we have to stare at this until..."

"Luna," Harry interjected helpfully. Ginny hadn't met her the first time around, and there had not been time for introductions when they'd found her.

"Until Luna gets back?" Ginny finished, throwing him a thankful glance. "It's rather... menacing, I think."

"Do you really want to go down the passage or into one of the rooms?"

"No," Ginny admitted, and shivered. "I just need something more cheerful. This is horrid."

They turned at the noise that followed – it sounded a bit like a page being turned – and found themselves inside garishly colored carnival tent. Ginny jumped as jolly music began to play (it sounded like it came from an accordion, or a mouth organ).

"What on earth?!"

It clicked together in Harry's mind.

"You said you needed something more cheerful."

Ginny shot him a puzzled look.

"Yes, and?"

He waved a hand in a wide arc at the brightly painted decorations that surrounded them.

"I think the room thinks this fits your requirements."

"Oh, dear," she said again, after digesting that for a short while. "It's terribly loud. And it's so empty."

It was. It completely lacked the noise of the crowd that created the authentic carnival feel, and the result was almost sinister.

"At least..." Harry turned and saw the mass behind them, still shifting constantly. "Oh, no. It followed us. Or it stayed in the same place even though the room changed."

"I guess this is a little better," Ginny allowed.

They both cringed as the music cracked on its highest note.

At this moment, Luna chose to burst in. She looked rather startled at the change in scenery, until her eyes were drawn to the thing. They first widened, then narrowed to slits, and then she marched towards Harry and Ginny with a grim air.

"We've got to get out," she said briskly.

"I thought we had to hide."

"No, we have to go."

They had barely made it ten paces outside the Room of Requirement (the room was a curious phenomenon; Harry looked back right after stepping out and it had already disappeared) before they heard an angry yell behind them.

It was Ginny's shapeshifting counterpart. Ginny had frozen in shock at the sight of _herself_ standing only yards away, so Harry grabbed her arm and pushed her forward.

"Go on," he hissed. Luna spared him an alarmed glance, but he nodded for her to take over. She inclined her head in understanding. "Hurry up, I'll hold it off."

"B... but... that's... that's me," Ginny stammered, tripping over her own feet as Luna dragged her on determinedly. "That's _me_."

"No, it's not. Just go. Go!"

He pulled out his knife once he was certain they had obeyed, their footsteps fading quickly in the distance. Not-Ginny gazed at him with cold fury in her heavy-lidded eyes, and she bared her teeth at him. He winced at the beastly gesture and held his silver weapon in from of him with as much nerve as he could gather.

"What do you think that's going to do to me?" she jeered, but nonetheless kept her distance.

"Why don't you come closer and we'll find out?" he challenged.

That was officially one of the stupidest suggestions he had made in the history of ever. Fortunately it hadn't quite goaded the creature into action, although he could see her jaw working ferociously. It was hard to look at her and not see Ginny, and he could only pray that someone would come before things got too bad.

Of course, no one would. He rarely had much luck in that department.

"You don't know why I'm here, do you?"

He could deal with an evil monologue. Hopefully it would be a long one. He didn't answer.

"It's not as if I killed the Weasley girl," she continued, switching subjects abruptly (which was a pity, because he had been curious). "I even fed her."

"I'm surprised you actually consider that worth mentioning."

"Very funny," Not-Ginny replied shortly, not looking amused in the slightest. "But back to the original point. It's too late for you. It doesn't matter if you kill me, because I've already done my job."

She licked her lips predatorily and smiled.

"Your job?"

He tightened his grip on the knife and did his best to hide the nervous tremors running up and down his arm. Not-Ginny smiled even more widely.

"He doesn't know what it i-is, he doesn't know what it i-is!" she sang mockingly.

Exhaling slowly through his nose, he fought to control his temper. She wanted him to lose it and attack her, but he wouldn't… he _wouldn't_. A cold draft swept down the passage, and for neither the first nor the last time he wished someone would hurry up and come.

"Why don't you tell me, then?"

"That would ruin the point, idiot," she replied, with patient contempt. "What's the point of having a secret if I give it away before it happens?"

 _Before it happens_... that meant it was an event, which meant... he had absolutely no idea.

She reached under her robes and he watched cautiously for any wink or reflection that might indicate a weapon. Instead, her hands came out holding a familiar black book. She waved it up and down a couple times, still grinning.

"That's _Tom_."

He could have bitten his tongue off.

"Ah," she said, satisfied. "I thought you'd been rummaging through my stuff. Tom told me there'd been a John writing to him. I'm rather impressed, actually; not many would have the presence of mind to give a fake name. Now, on to a little... black magic." She winked at him and opened the book. "Come on out and join the party, Tom!"

Ink rapidly started to pool inside the book, pouring out of the pages like a veritable waterfall, and overflowing onto the floor. The spilled ink released curls of black smoke, which gathered into a mass above it and gradually began to take form.

 _... Eyes flew open, black again... "Te Rogamus, Audi Nos!"... black smoke spewed out of its mouth in torrents... black cloud gathered..._

"Demon!" he gasped, barely aware of what he was doing or where he was, knowing only that _he had to stop it_ , and he darted forward and plunged the knife in the shapeshifter's chest.

Not-Ginny's eyes widened, staring at him in blank shock ( _don't... don't stare at me like that... please_ ), and then she looked down, where her hands had convulsively grasped the bloody hilt protruding from her chest. Then she looked back up at him, and choked a little, blood bubbling through her lips and dribbling down her chin.

Harry stumbled backwards, the knife clattering to the ground from his slack fingers. Not-Ginny fell to her knees heavily, her hands pressed to the bloody gash at her heart, and she slumped in a crumpled mound on the floor. He merely gaped at her. His mind was completely blank and his heart was pounding, pounding in his ears, throbbing in his slashed hand.

The black smoke crept close to the floor and slowly snaked around the unmoving body of the shapeshifter. It slipped silently into her mouth, rapidly disappearing inside.

Not-Ginny's eyes flew open and Harry started violently, backing several more steps away. She pushed herself up, shaking her head dazedly, and rose unsteadily.

"This is," she rolled the words weirdly in her mouth as though unaccustomed to speaking, "very strange."

She jerked her head awkwardly in his direction and her eyes lit up.

"Hullo!" she exclaimed excitedly and in a high voice. "My name's Tom!"

She frowned.

"No, no, the body's all wrong." She grinned again brightly at Harry and her teeth were mottled with blood, the gums receding horrifically to reveal their roots. "Never mind, I'm a shapeshifter now. I can fix that quickly. Just give me a moment."

Flipping the robe quickly over her head, she began to writhe and grab and rip at her skin, pulling it off in slimy strands and letting it fall with wet slaps to the ground. Harry's stomach lurched and he looked away, tasting bile.

"Sorry," he heard... _Tom_ say after several minutes of screaming at his self-inflicted pain. "That part's a bit nasty, and I'm new to this. Useful ability, though. I like looking like myself again."

Harry turned. Tom smiled at him, somewhat more neat and trim, and once again wearing Ginny's now too-short robe. He wiped away a trickle of residual blood from his forehead. Instead of looking like a young redhead, he was rather tall, his eyes and hair dark. His face, while handsome, had a certain ruthlessness in its expression that turned Harry off.

"Sorry," Tom repeated genially, and came forward, holding out a hand. "Hullo, Harry. Your name's Harry, right? I got that much from the creature's head before she kicked the bucket, and a mercy that she did, too. I'm Tom Riddle. We've been introduced, but not very... corporeally, per se. Glad to meet you. I think we're practically kindred spirits."

"I hope not," Harry returned, with as much iciness as he could muster.

Tom chuckled.

"Oh, all right. Whatever you say." He frowned, but looked almost as if he was simply relishing the ability to form facial expressions. "It was rotten to be stuck in a book for so many decades," he continued, frankly. "I'm glad to be out."

"What exactly do you plan to do?" Harry asked carefully. Somehow he didn't hold much hope that the answer would be less than destructive.

"Oh, this and that," said Tom, very cheerfully, placing a hand companionably on Harry's shoulder. Harry tried to shrug it off, but his hold was firm. "You can help if you like. You seem quite capable."

"Tell me what I'm supposed to help with first."

Tom drew him closer.

"I'll tell you a secret. The Chamber of Secrets isn't _going_ to be opened. You've all been duped, and _spectacularly_. It was opened fifty years ago by me... I've simply come back to retrieve my inheritance."

"You're the heir of Slytherin?"

Harry felt a brief flash of relief that it wasn't _him_ , and then remembered that this was probably worse.

"Quite. But I'm willing to go halves... no... maybe eighty to twenty."

Pulling away, Harry scowled at him.

"No."

Not a flicker of surprise passed over the smooth, bland face.

"Oh? That's unfortunate. We would have made an unforgettable pair. As it is, all I can tell you now," his teeth flashed, "is that it would probably be good to look behind you."

Harry jerked his head around, and his eyes met a great, glowing, unblinking gaze.

 _Oh, crap._

And he knew no more.

* * *

 _"Harry... Harry!"_

He sat up.

"Snake!" he croaked, and his eyes flew open.

Luna looked startled.

"What?"

Harry whipped his head around.

"There was a... snake?" he ended doubtfully as he saw Ron and Hermione sitting on a bed beside him.

He was in the infirmary (again). But how...

"Ron!" he exclaimed, paling. "Ron, I need to explain. That wasn't Ginny, honestly. It was a shapeshifter. You know I would never, never..."

"Whoa... whoa, mate, hold it."

Harry frowned. Ron didn't sound angry. He didn't even sound annoyed. Just curious... and amused?

"What are you talking about? Did you have a rummy nightmare?"

"Nightma..." Words failed him, and he turned to Luna. "Luna, you remember. You took Ginny... I had to hold off the shapeshifter..."

Luna seemed genuinely puzzled.

"What are you talking about? Ginny's in class right now."

"In _class_?"

"Ye-es," Ron put in, slowly. "But what exactly does Ginny have to do with this? You just smashed your head against the stairs... second time this year, too. You've got to watch your step, Harry. What's a shapeshifter?"

* * *

 **Aha. Stumped you there, have I?**

 **Reviews – especially constructive criticism – are always very much appreciated! Thank you!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Glad you all liked the last chapter (although everyone seemed pretty confused)! And several of you think Luna is an angel, do you? I guess you're going to have to wait and see.**

 **A big thank you to Mumia0813, Mordollwen Castiel, Xanoka, god of all, Akayuki Novak, Lathea, OtakuDrag0n, Established Insanity, TentaiMahou98, Sailor Pandabear, VanriddleZ, Monkeysloveapples, lunaz,** **luv-blonde-bunny, Aurora BoreAlice, person, and Smile Black for your reviews!**

 **I'm apologizing ahead of time for the lack of any real explanation in this chapter. I'm not abandoning the last story arc, though. It's going to be resolved eventually, so hang tight.**

 **Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me except for parts of the story line and my little twists. Things you recognize are probably from the books or TV show.**

* * *

BOOK ONE

Chapter XIII

* * *

Harry would have thought it all a dream if he hadn't returned to the passage in a mess of nerves, certain that his mind and memory were falling to pieces. But the overflowing ink had left a dark, angry stain on the stone floor, and upon further investigation he found that his knife still had traces of blood crusted over its hilt. While the Room of Requirement did not appear again, he assumed it was only because he didn't really need it.

Still, he was the only one who fully remembered the events that had passed (if they _had_ passed, and he also still wasn't quite sure about that). Everyone else had a convenient gap in their memory wherever they had witnessed anything pertaining to the shapeshifter (he was glad at least that the professors didn't think he was a criminal anymore), and Ginny thought she had been present the whole year. If her magical skills didn't seem very well honed, it was attributed to her absorption in Quidditch.

"So the whole heir of Slytherin thing was a joke, wasn't it?" Ron yawned, as the train rumbled away from the Hogwarts station. "Nothing ever came of it."

"Mm," Hermione hummed absently, turning another page of her book.

Ginny popped another Every Flavor Bean into her mouth and hurriedly coughed it out into her hand. With more curiosity than disgust, Luna peered over her shoulder at the greenish-yellow muck.

"Yeah," said Harry, feeling weirdly lonely. "I guess so."

* * *

Harry really hated summer. It was hot, and his room (which was the highest in the house, and on the sunniest side to boot) was stuffy, and his aunt and uncle and cousin were... just... themselves. It was bearable, though. What was unbearable, on the other hand, was the currently transpiring visit from Aunt Marge.

It seemed that, every time, no sooner did he return to Privet Drive than a multitude of horrors descended upon him. Aunt Marge was old, heavy, austere, and thoroughly disapproved of him. When he had been very small – practically still a toddler – she'd rapped him on the head with her knuckles (how could a person so fat have such bony knuckles, anyway?) for fidgeting in his chair.

Now he was being severely scrutinized on his stool in the corner. Aunt Marge was glaring daggers at him as he was apparently "living off the charity of poor, dear Petunia and Vernon" and "trying to influence darling Dudley to follow his evil ways." Harry tried to squash himself smaller, and hoped the visit would be over soon.

"I don't understand," Aunt Marge sniffed disapprovingly, "why Lily and that no-account husband of hers decided to dump this terror of a child on you? Simply to plague your existence? And why for heaven's sake did the drunks have to go and get themselves killed in a car accident?"

Harry boiled.

"My parents weren't _drunks_ ," he hissed, clenching his fists so tightly around his seat that they turned white. "And they weren't killed in a _car accident_!"

"Harry, stop your blathering this instant!" Petunia warned him, but he ignored her, his voice rising with each word.

"How dare you say that about them, you sniveling, fat, old hag?! They were brave and they tried to save you and the rest of the world from the most dangerous man ever to live, and if you don't appreciate that you can go _drown your ungrateful head in a toilet_!"

"Harry!" Petunia exclaimed, and her voice, too shocked to be angry, was drowned out by Vernon's roar of rage, which in turn was overwhelmed by a piercing, terrified screech. They turned towards the source of the sound with open mouths.

Aunt Marge's already large body was expanding, swelling to disturbing sizes as she screamed in terror. Vernon started to yell, and Petunia to wail, and Dudley looked on with round eyes. Harry took one look at her bloated form and fled upstairs.

Knives (both iron and silver), his only remaining canister of salt, books, and wand went into his backpack (thank heavens every year they got new schoolbooks; he only had to lug around his few personal ones). After a moment, his practicality urged him to grab a small, crumpled mound of clothes, as well as the cellphone from his desk.

He unhitched the door of Hedwig's cage to let her fly away (she could find him easily enough), and snuck out amid the cacophony of yells and shrieks that were emanating from the living room. Hopefully they wouldn't notice his absence for a while, because without a doubt he would be pinned as the culprit. It was unfortunate that his magic, so weak during class, had manifested in this inopportune manner; he had to be far away by the time the Ministry swept in, with their Obliviating spells and strict rules against underage magic. _Would they try to snap his wand?_

Harry ran down Privet Drive, his backpack thumping against him uncomfortably as he tried to pull it over his shoulders. Occupied with this little difficulty, he ran straight into someone. He got a mouthful of dull greenish fabric before he managed to pull away, gasping. The person grasped his shoulders.

"You okay?"

Harry shook himself to clear his head.

"Hey, what's the matter? Do you need help?"

As a matter of fact, he did need help. What on earth was he doing, running away with nothing but a backpack full of knickknacks and the clothes on his back, without any idea how to find food or shelter? He realized belatedly that he was gaping at the man he'd collided with, who was staring at him with a confused air, and fumbled for an answer.

"Yes... no. No, I don't. I'm good. Thanks for the reminder, though."

"Reminder?" the man echoed, his brow furrowing, but Harry jogged away before he was questioned further.

He had three options. First, he could go back and face the music (that one wasn't even really an option). Second, he could try to find his way to the train station and onto the Hogwarts Express – if it was even there – and catch a ride to stay at Hogwarts until school started. Third, he could call Victor to pick him up, providing he would agree to it.

"Victor!" he exclaimed, as soon as his call was picked up.

" _Who's this?_ "

Victor's voice sounded slurred, but Harry was too highly strung to care.

"Victor, you've got to help me."

" _With what?_ "

"Can you pick me up? I... my aunt and uncle... they aren't happy with me. I can't go back... can you please..."

" _No_."

Startled by the blunt answer, Harry's mind and body both screeched to halt. It had never occurred to him that Victor wouldn't help. He always helped.

"What... why not?"

" _Because I have a concussion. And I think I'm in... Scotland._ "

"That's terrible. Do you need help?"

" _No_." Victor blew out a slow breath on the other end of the line. There was a heavy thud as he apparently sat down. " _You're in Little Whinging anyway. Too far._ "

Harry looked around him.

"Right."

" _I'll see if someone's in the area. Give me a moment._ " There was some muffled clanking and swearing, and Harry gnawed the insides of his cheeks anxiously. Victor was panting heavily when he picked up the phone again several minutes later.

"Are you sure you're all right?" asked Harry, hoisting his backpack higher on his shoulders. The sun was beating down unrelentingly and his shirt was damp and slippery from sweat. "You sound really bad. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called..."

" _Forget it. Listen, I contacted a hunter who's about an hour or so away from you. There's a cafe called Lucy's several streets away from your aunt's house... go there_."

Harry bounced his empty hand against his knee and wondered admiringly if he would ever be experienced enough to give those kind of directions in a semi-alert state.

"How will I know who it is?"

Victor's voice was rather dry when he answered.

" _No need to worry. I gave a description_."

"All right. Thank..."

The dial tone buzzed loudly and Harry jerked the cellphone away from his ear, frowning at the hunter's disconcerting habit. Honestly, he should have just accepted the thanks. The more immediate issue, however, was the location of Lucy's Cafe.

* * *

He was fairly certain that four hours had already passed, and there was no sign of Victor's mysterious hunter acquaintance. It had occurred to Harry about an hour after reaching Lucy's that he didn't even know whether he or she was... a _he_ or a _she_. Evidently he was at a disadvantage.

Lucy's would be closing very soon. The last few customers began slowly to trickle out, having finished their pastries and sandwiches and soups, and the servers were wiping the tables and sweeping the floor.

Darkness was creeping up the horizon to the east. In his small corner in the back of the restaurant, Harry began to worry about whether or not he would have to find somewhere to stay for the night. While, according to his Gringotts vault, he was a very rich boy, he had only about two pounds and twenty pence left in his possession, which was hardly enough for an inn or hotel room.

He pulled his backpack into his lap and counted out the coins again, half hoping that he had missed some the last fifty times over, or that the amount had magically quadrupled. Occupied in this way, he missed seeing the last person to walk through the door.

A shadow fell over the small pile of coins in his palm and, startled, he sprang back (an encounter with Aunt Marge wasn't something easily forgotten; it tended to make one jumpy).

"Good Lord!"

A pair of warm brown eyes crinkled in amusement and Harry found himself face to face with a woman, who was somewhat short in stature and wore a neat, gray business suit. She pushed her shoulder-length brown hair behind an ear and held out her hand.

"Hullo. You must be Harry, eh?"

Her voice had an accent with a certain flavor that Harry couldn't quite place.

"Yes," he said, shaking her hand uncertainly. "Yes, that's me."

"Brilliant. I'm sorry I'm late, I got hung up."

Harry stuffed his money back into his bag, a little embarrassed that she had seen him counting it like a greedy little pig, but he was glad that he wouldn't have to use it.

"Did the job... delay you?"

She shot him a dimpled grin.

"No, traffic. I was up north and London is real bitch to get through at this time."

As they were the last to leave, the restaurant door was closed and locked behind them. It was dark outside, but even so Harry burrowed more deeply into his jacket to hide his face. Who knew whether Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would be looking for him?

The woman led him behind the building, where an unidentifiable, dark colored coupe was half hidden behind a trimmed hedge (he suspected that was because of paranoia). She gestured to the passenger side.

"Climb in."

Harry deliberately rammed his wrist into the side of the car.

" _Christo_!" he swore, clutching it (maybe he had fake-hit it a little too hard).

The hunter turned.

"What did you say?"

He wrung his hand ruefully and grabbed the door handle.

"Nothing. I was being clumsy. So where are we headed? Is Victor all right?"

Shoving the key into the ignition, she slammed her foot on the gas pedal and they swerved into the street, which was beginning to empty.

"We're going to my dad's house," she told him, eyes glued to the road. "It's several hours away. Victor's fine; he'll meet us there."

"I thought he had a concussion?"

Even in the darkness he could see her eyes roll.

"Yes... most likely he'll have a dislocated arm and fifty stitch-worthy so-called 'scratches.' He can handle it for a short drive, though. Hey," she waved in his general direction, "dig into the glove compartment in front of you."

Harry accordingly dug. The compartment was neatly organized, everything stored in its properly box. He frowned at some of them and reached out to touch one of the typed labels.

"Why do you have a rabbit's f..."

She slapped his hand away swiftly.

"Don't touch that. Get the CD's."

The box was stuffed to the brim with thin cases, so tightly that he could barely pull them out.

"Which one do you want?"

"Ah. Hmm... Scriabin."

He shuffled through the cases as best he could.

"Is that a band?" he asked, for the sake of conversation.

"No." She huffed indignantly. " _He_ is a composer, for heaven's sake. His piano preludes are genius. Pop it in, will you?"

* * *

"Harry."

Someone prodded his shoulder and he hummed in sleepy displeasure. _No, I don't want to get up, leave me alone._

"You have to."

He must have said that bit out loud.

"Get _up_. Good gracious, is this what all little boys are like?"

"'M not a little boy."

"Fine. You're big, you're old, you're a girl, I don't care. Just get up!"

Harry turned around to glare irritatedly at his tormenter. His legs were cramped and his neck had an uncomfortable crook in it. The joys of sleeping in a car... a _car_? He sat up straighter, yawning widely, and scrubbed his grimy, crystallized drool-covered face. His mouth tasted gross.

"Where are we?"

The sky was only just lightening. They were parked on an incline, perpendicular to the slope, and right next to a low-roofed cottage. All around them were green, rolling hills covered with trees and rocky crags, and the occasional expanse of dark water could be seen between the hilltops. Sliding out of his door, Harry gazed at his surroundings with awe and rising excitement.

"Pretty, isn't it?" his companion remarked casually, and he could only nod and follow as she strode towards the front door.

A Volvo was already parked beside her coupe (it was dark green, he could now see in the ever-brightening light). So Victor was already here.

"Oi, Victor! We're here!" She pounded with the brass knocker. "Open up, will you? I've forgotten where the key went."

The door opened a crack.

"It's in the same place it's always been in. You're a lazy good-for-nothing, Blair," said Victor, but his voice was too tired to sound quite as biting as usual. "Morning, Harry."

"Hello, Victor. How are you?"

"I feel like shit, if that's what you were wondering. Close the door behind you."

The cottage was tiny; it was comprised mostly of the kitchen, which was where they had come in, the living room, and a single door in the back that, Harry later found out, led to the only bedroom. Victor walked stiffly to the dining table and picked up a curved needle.

"So," he said, poking it into his skin near a particularly nasty scratch –it was still oozing blood down his arm – and Harry winced. "What happened?"

Blair let out a stifled, irritated noise and stalked over, snatching the needle out of his hand.

"Don't be silly."

"I wasn't..."

"Sit down and I'll do it."

Victor sat down grumpily and hissed in pain when she poured a liberal amount of alcohol over the wound.

"That _hurt_! You're a butcher!"

"You're a wimp."

"Is your name really Blair?" Harry asked curiously, remembering rather suddenly that she had never introduced herself. Blair looked momentarily embarrassed.

"I'm sorry, it completely slipped my mind. Yes, my name's Blair Campbell."

"Silly yourself," Victor muttered under his breath.

"Oh, be quiet. I assumed, perfectly logically, that you'd told him who was picking him up. And, Harry, don't bother answering his question. We'll sit down and talk it over once I finish this. Victor, give me the list."

Harry watched the apparently customary ritual with interest.

"Only that one scratch, and a dislocated arm."

"Did you..."

"I reset it before I came over. Mild concussion, but it isn't affecting me too much."

"Mild as in _actually_ mild, or..."

"If it was bad, you would know."

Blair seemed satisfied.

"Anything else?" she asked, tugging the final strand of thread into place.

Victor shook his head and twisted it to look down at the neat stitches. He gingerly pulled on his jacket.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

She packed the first aid equipment back into its box and stowed it in one of the kitchen cabinets.

"You can sit down if you like, you know," she told Harry, who was still standing awkwardly by the front door, backpack in hand.

He seated himself on the edge of the quilted sofa.

"So is your dad here?"

"No," Blair replied. He couldn't see her face, but her back tensed.

"How about if we figure out the whole mess that brought you here?" Victor suggested quickly, his eyes warning Harry not to further pursue the subject.

"Ever so tactful," Blair joked, undeceived. She slapped his shoulder rather fondly, if not very gently. Victor grunted.

"That was the dislocated one."

"Sorry," she said airily, not sounding too sorry, and threw herself onto the armchair nearest the fireplace. "My dad's dead, Harry... he has been for several years. It's okay. Now, what's this with your aunt and running away?"

"I can't go back," said Harry, feeling that he had to establish that clearly before they continued. "They'll... I don't even know what they'll do. I can't."

She nodded.

"Right. No going back. Why's that?"

Harry winced and laced his fingers together.

"I might have... uh... sort of... assaulted Aunt Marge?"

"What?"

"I didn't do it on _purpose_."

* * *

The clacking of Blair's fingers on the keyboard was starting to grate on Harry's nerves. After enduring another two minutes of it, he escaped into the kitchen, where Victor was grimly consuming very strong coffee with his formerly dislocated arm.

Harry climbed onto one of the four stools lined up next to the smooth wooden island and rested his chin on his hands, staring at the rain streaking down the curtained window.

"Do you think I did the right thing?" he asked presently. "Running away, I mean."

Victor snorted.

"I'm probably one of the last people you should be asking for that kind of advice from."

"I shouldn't have done anything to her, though."

Victor shrugged and said nothing.

"Do you... do you think I'm a horrible person?" Harry asked, anxiously but very reluctantly. The words seemed to stick in his throat on their way out.

It wasn't exactly his fault that he had assaulted Aunt Marge, but it felt a little like it; hopefully she had not suffered any lasting effects.

"Do you want me to be perfectly honest?"

"Yes."

Victor poured himself another cup of coffee and took a gulp.

"Ow, damn it, that's hot!" He hastily placed it on the counter. "I do think she had it coming to her, judging from the way she came down on your parents. But – and this will sound very strange coming from someone who kills for a living – violence isn't a good way to resolve anything. If there was another way, you should have taken it. Counted to ten, or something like that. You shouldn't have reacted without thinking of the consequences. "

Harry shifted and stared very hard at his clasped hands. His left middle fingernail was chipped.

"I couldn't control myself."

"You have to learn to."

"I think I have anger issues."

"Think you're going to get a free pass because your head's not screwed on straight?" His voice was light. Harry felt a little better.

" _Your_ head isn't screwed on straight," he grumbled back, rubbing his temples.

"Pitiful, Harry. Do you even try?"

Harry yawned widely.

"I'm too tired to think properly," he insisted, sliding off the stool. "Is there anywhere..."

"You can hunker down in the bedroom." Victor bobbed his head in the direction of the closed door. "Blair and I have some things to discuss anyway."

"What kind of things?"

"Hunting things." Victor drained the rest of his mug, wincing as the hot liquid touched his cracked lip. "There's something new out there, and I need to gather intel."

He rubbed his face tiredly. There were dark circles under his eyes and his skin was pale, glistening with sweat. Harry observed him for several moments.

"You know, I'm not that sleepy after all," he said. "I think I'll update my journal instead. Haven't even looked at it since last summer."

Victor made a vague movement with his hand, not putting much effort into it.

"Do what you like."

* * *

There was a curious little attic that could be reached through the bedroom closet. The ladder, leaning close against the wall, led to a sort of trapdoor above, which opened into a surprisingly spacious area with steeply sloped ceilings. The rain clattered especially loudly against the slats, and it was rather cold.

Bundled up in his warmest jacket and a blanket he had snagged from the bed, Harry crawled into a relatively clean alcove that was hidden away from view of the door. He pulled out his journal and stared at the words scrawled on the first page. It felt like a very long time since he'd written them.

 _Demons:_

 _-Use salt and holy water as repellants_

 _-Exorcise: Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, ergo draco maledicte, ut ecclesiam tuam secura, tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos_

 _Ghosts (?):_

 _-Use salt as repellant_

 _-Other?_

He carefully gummed out the question marks and added, in the place of other:

 _-Salt and burn bones_

 _Shapeshifters:_

 _-Use silver as repellant_

 _-Silver knife to kill_

 _Spirits can possess people like demons (e.g. Tom Riddle took over shapeshifter Ginny; only works on shapeshifters?)_.

He chewed the end of his pencil thoughtfully and stared out the dusty, round window beside him. It was still drizzling lightly, but the clouds weren't nearly as thick and dark as they had been. He closed the notebook, sliding it close to the wall, and peered at the town below. The houses were all low, clustered closely as though seeking support from each other. To his surprise and secret delight, he could see at least one tiny cart being pulled by a horse of proportional size. It was... quaint.

He was drawn out of his musings by a muffled crash and the ensuing swear words from downstairs. Backing out of the nook, he hurriedly covered his journal with the blanket and, pulling his jacket more tightly around him, he climbed down the ladder and emerged from the closet.

"You're going to disturb Harry," Blair was chiding Victor, who, suddenly meek again, was picking up the heavy books scattered across the ground.

"I don't understand," Victor moaned, running his hands through his hair. "It doesn't make sense." He looked up, his eyes wild, and Harry retreated further, curious but unwilling to reveal himself. "It threw me across the whole room by flicking its wrist."

"Witch?" Blair suggested, shuffling to the pantry and rifling through its contents. Finding little, she moved towards the refrigerator.

"I'm not a rookie," Victor protested, looking aggrieved. "I did do research."

Blair crunched cheerfully on an apple.

"Did any points stand out?" she asked between mouthfuls.

Victor's eyebrow twitched.

"Do black eyes count?"

Harry froze behind the bedroom door and strained his ears.

"Black eyes as in a black eye, or black eyes as in _black eyes_?"

"As in both eyeballs were entirely dead black," said Victor, ignoring the nonsensicality of her question.

"Huh." Blair chewed pensively. "I don't remember hearing of something like that. I found a hunt, though, so I'll be heading out before nightfall. I'll ask around. What's going to happen to the boy?"

Victor sighed, threading a hand through his hair again and seeming uncharacteristically frazzled.

"It's his choice."

"How are you going to hunt with him?"

"He's not half bad at it."

"And what happens this winter? You'll have to send him to school; you can't just take him on an indefinite car drive around the country."

Victor sat up abruptly, his formerly tipped chair landing with a heavy thud on the floor.

"What? No! Besides, he goes to boarding school."

Deciding that it was about time to step in, Harry crept back to the closet and promptly stomped out, pulling the door open loudly. Victor turned his head briefly in his direction.

"Harry. Nice nap?"

"Didn't take one," said Harry, busying himself with a mug before remembering that he didn't drink coffee. "I told you."

"Right, the journal. Did you write down all your thoughts and feelings?"

Mildly offended at the ridicule in his tone, Harry drew himself up.

"No, it's a _hunting_ journal."

Victor looked interested in spite of himself.

"Ah. That's a good idea. Writing down all your knowledge of the supernatural?"

"Basically."

"Good. So what do you think about the black-eyed terror?"

Harry shot a sharp glance at him. Victor looked away studiously. Harry realized with a jolt that he – no, _they_ , most probably – had known he was at the door the whole time.

"Of course I did," Victor replied, unimpressed, upon being confronted with this accusation. "It's called a hunter's instinct. I would be dead already if I hadn't learned to be constantly on alert. Anyway, thoughts?"

"I'm pretty sure I know what it is," said Harry. He dropped onto the chair beside him. "It's a demon. Black eyes, telekinetic powers. I... or rather, my friend and I... researched them a couple years ago. A friend of hers was possessed."

Frowning, Victor steepled his hands under his chin. Harry was gratified to see, however, that he wasn't discounting the idea. Goodness knew it was one that could reasonably be ignored.

"How did you know it was one?"

"The exorcism worked."

"Classic exorcism?"

"Yes."

"What did it look like?"

Harry frowned.

"You mean the possessed person?"

"No, outside its host body."

Host body was a nice, impersonal term.

"It was like this really thick, black smoke," he explained, struggling to describe its appearance. "You say the exorcism and it pours out of the... host body's mouth, and then it sort of disappears through a fiery door to Hell, I guess."

Victor looked skeptical.

"I've never heard of demons before," he said, rubbing his stitched arm absently. "That is, I've never heard of them actually existing. They might possibly have simply not come into England until now. Did your friend's friend survive the possession?"

Harry flinched.

"At first," he said quietly. "He was murdered a little while afterward."

"Demons, again?"

"I think so, but there's no evidence."

"Shit," Victor muttered, and was silent for several minutes. Blair scrutinized them both carefully, but likewise said nothing. "What works on them?"

"Besides the exorcism? Salt, holy water, saying _Christo_ ," Harry told him, racking his brains for more. He tapped his fingers against the tabletop. "Otherwise not much, at least not that I know of."

Victor perked up a little.

"Well, that's something. It isn't difficult to find any of that. You're sure you didn't find anything else? If they're anything like they are in the stories, they'll be pretty tough to deal with."

"Devil's trap!" Harry exclaimed, standing. "I haven't tested it yet," he confessed, deflating, "but supposedly it'll hold them in place and bind their powers. I'll draw it for you."

"Just a pentagram and a circle?" Victor asked doubtfully, when he had finished. "It seems... simple."

"Isn't that good?"

"Nothing is ever simple. But if it works, it's good enough for me. I'm going to have to research more on them, though – I knew I should have paid more attention in catechism class – no offense, of course."

"None taken," Harry assured him.

Victor turned to Blair, who spread her palms in a gesture of acceptance.

"Already on it. I told you I would ask around, see what people have to say. It should be easier now that I have a name for the thing. I'm heading out now, as a matter of fact. All of my things are still in the car." She pulled on her boots. "Both of you feel free to hang around here as long as you like. Just remember to put the key back in its spot. Where's that?"

Victor rolled his eyes at her, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

"In the slot under the windowsill."

"Then I'll be seeing you. So long, Harry." She gripped his hand. "Make sure Victor doesn't get you into too much trouble."

"Right," said Harry, pretending not to have heard Victor's light, derisive snort. "Thanks for driving me."

"I was headed this way anyway. Happy hunting, mates."

* * *

They didn't end up staying very long. Victor was restless and only stayed put for two days, and that was only because he seemed afraid to drive until he was sure the concussion wasn't affecting him. He appeared to take for granted that Harry would come with him. Harry was secretly glad not to have to make the decision himself; his conscience was prodding him gently to return.

When they had packed up their few possessions, having decided to brave the driving rain, Victor didn't start the car for several long seconds.

"She never said which windowsill," he remarked eventually.

It was too out-of-the-blue for Harry to make any sort of connection.

"What?"

Victor grinned at him and pushed open his door again. Harry watched as he jogged back through the driving rain to the door and removed the key, disappearing behind the cottage and coming back around empty-handed. He rubbed his hands together briskly, water dripping from his drenched hair.

"Was that worth it?" asked Harry, amused.

"Oh, yes, very. You'll see. Blair can have very colorful vocabulary when she puts her mind to it. I hope it's still raining when she comes back."

Harry shook his head.

"I'm not making excuses for you."

"I wouldn't dream of asking for any."

* * *

 **Just to be clear, Blair will _not_ be any sort of love interest. She's only there because I didn't want all my OC hunters to be male. Tell me what you think. Also tell me to trash the OCs if they're getting pushy. I'm not going to add any more at present, in case you were worried (I'm sort of changeable, though, so no promises).**

 **Reviews – especially constructive criticism – are always very much appreciated! Thank you!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Regarding Chapter 13, there are two options: either the majority of you didn't like it very much – hopefully that isn't the right one – or it was so good that you literally had no words. I prefer to consider it the latter. Of course, I would rather it _not_ be that good so that you send a few words my way. Please? Cue the innocent, sweet, puppy-eyed, can't-say-no-to-me grin (which is marginally less effective as you can't see me).**

 **Ah, well, such is life. I'll not begrudge the slight shortage of reviews – goodness knows I read quite a bit without bothering to leave a line – so here is the next chapter. Chapter 14. Obviously, since last one was Chapter 13. I mean, _I_ thought it was sort of obvious. Now I'm rambling. I tend to do that. I suffer from chronic boredom and rambling is a direct result of that.**

 **Thanks to you few, you happy few reviewers (Shakespeare, anyone?): Sailor Pandabear, luv-blonde-bunny, cbelits, Umbra.V (I tried to put your whole username but for some reason it was deleted several times in a row… sorry!), Xanoka, Lathea, and just-another-crack-in-a-wall. I'd hug you, but I hardly think that would be practical what with airplane rates the way they are nowadays.**

 **And to luv-blonde-bunny, who was wondering what happened to Adam... now you'll know!**

 **Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me except for parts of the story line and my little twists. Things you recognize are probably from the books or TV show.**

* * *

BOOK ONE

Chapter XIV

* * *

"Hello? Is something the matter?"

Adam blinked out of his horrified trance and fastened his eyes on the confused woman standing in front of him. The line behind her was rapidly growing. Shooting her a weak smile, he wiped his hands on his apron and tried to act like a welcoming employee.

"Oh, hey!" He fought to steady his voice. "Uh... no, nothing. Everything's fine. What can I get for you?"

She watched him for a moment; he could practically see the doubtful cogs turning in her mind. He bit his tongue and waited anxiously, hoping she wouldn't make a fuss.

"I'll have an iced latte, please," she said finally, apparently having concluded that there might be a possibility of him getting her order right.

"Right. One iced latte. That'll be..." his fingers slipped against the cash register and he cleared his throat awkwardly, "two pounds and ten."

He gripped the edge of the counter as she moved on, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. The dark red, chunky guck that moments ago had been splattered glaringly against the white, enameled tiles had vanished completely.

"There's nothing there," he muttered under his breath, half convinced that he was lying to himself but mostly certain that everyone around him would be much more disturbed had it been there. "Nothing. There's nothing."

Something touched his elbow – it felt like a magnified prick of a needle, sending a jolt of pain all the way down to his fingertips, but he must have imagined that – and he spun around, inhaling sharply and throwing up his arms to protect his face (where had _that_ come from?). Greta Langland started.

"Adam?" Her voice was puzzled and worried. "What's wrong?"

His head was pounding and he pressed a hand to his temple, only half aware of the remaining customers, who were waiting impatiently to be attended. How come it was so cold? The forecast had been nearly eighty-five degrees (Fahrenheit, and he was doubly sure of it since he'd had to do the math; the Celsius scale was a real pain to convert). But he felt cold, that uncomfortable kind of cold brought on by high fevers.

"I don't know. I... I really don't feel good."

Her eyes softened and she shot him a sweet smile, touching his hand sympathetically. If he had had the energy, he might have shot her his customary glare (he didn't even pretend not to know what her intentions were towards him), but right now he was almost grateful for the gesture.

"I'll take over," she said eagerly. No, eagerly was the wrong word for it. It was more like predatorily. Like she expected him to thank her in an... unconventional way. He cringed. "You should go home or at least take a rest."

His vision swirled and he squeezed his eyes shut, giving her a brief nod.

"Okay. Thanks."

No unconventional gratitude, thank you very much. Regardless, Greta's plump, red face beamed.

"Oh, not a problem at all," she trilled, flipping her hair over her shoulder and tripping to the cash register. She probably thought it made her look dainty or something.

Adam rubbed his elbow, still feeling a phantom pain. Maybe a rest _would_ do him some good. Something flashed in the corner of his eye and he whipped his head around.

A curious, gleaming silver knife lay on the counter, its surface unmarred except for crusty traces of a reddish substance. His chest constricted. Stumbling backwards, he reached blindly for the door, but when he looked up again the knife was gone.

"I'm going crazy," he said out loud, once he had reached the comparative privacy of the alley behind the cafe. "Officially. I'm insane."

He pulled off his green apron, tossing it to the side, and sat rigidly on the doorstep. It was quiet and empty, with only forgotten newspapers and bits of cardboard and styrofoam drifting about in the light breeze. Even though the sun was warm and high in the sky, he could feel continuous cold chills running up and down his spine.

A lone man wandered towards him, whistling cheerfully, his hands stuck way down deep in his pockets. Adam watched him curiously. He was not old, per se, but middle-aged, dressed in jeans and a casual top, his blond hair cut rather short. His eyes were blue and very keen, and Adam felt their full force as they drifted in his direction and remained there.

The man stopped whistling.

"Hello," he greeted, his accent hearteningly American.

"Hi."

The man jerked his head in the direction of the door.

"How's work?"

Adam sighed.

"It sucks. Not," he added hastily, not particularly wanting to get fired, "because the food and drinks are bad. I'm just not having a great day."

The man nodded sympathetically and sat down next to him on the step, sending coldness creeping along his arm and through his clothes. Adam scooted away as discreetly as he could manage. No cold. Cold was bad.

"Hey, you're doing better than me on my bad days," said the man conversationally. The blue eyes, for all their twinkling, were flinty, making him wonder uneasily what had happened to put that look in them.

"What happened?"

The man chuckled lightly and leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head.

"I remember getting kicked out of the house for misbehaving." His face darkened. "My family... what a bunch of assholes."

They sat in what might have been companionable silence if Adam hadn't felt an unexplainable apprehension welling up inside him. There was something odd about the guy, something off, and something that he couldn't very well explain seeing as he had only met him a few minutes ago.

"You know, Adam," said the man suddenly, his forehead crinkling, "you just have no _luck_. Honestly, I feel bad. I'd stay longer, but people are gonna think you're crazy, sitting out here all alone."

Adam half-turned his head towards the door. It was closed.

"I don't think so," he replied, turning back again. "They probably think that I'm sick and I'm going to contaminate all of their..."

He halted and frowned. The man had gone, and very quickly and quietly at that. It was only when he went back inside, his head a little clearer (luckily his brain wasn't tricking him into seeing blood and knives all over the place either), that he realized he had never told him his name.

* * *

Victor climbed into the car, holding a paper bag of pastries that was partially darkened with grease. Gratefully, Harry took the hot croissant that he was offered. He fanned it and switched it rapidly back and forth between his singed hands.

The sky was clear; the storm had drifted to the east, and they to the north. Already they had whizzed past miles and miles of farmland, and were now heading towards the craggy hills of northern England. Harry suspected that they were heading in the general direction of Hogwarts as well, but he didn't think that worth mentioning. Hunters and wizards did not sound like a very good mix. He shuddered at the thought.

"Where are we headed?" he asked, not yet venturing to take a bite.

"The Library," said Victor, yanking the gearshift into driving mode.

It reminded Harry vaguely that he should learn to drive eventually. Not yet, of course, as he was – or thought he was, because he wasn't exactly sure of the legal driving age – several years too young, but he resolved to look into it sometime in the near future. With a pang of regret he remembered that he had left Dudley's old computer in his room.

"What's at a library for us?"

"Not _a_ library," Victor corrected him, leaning forward to peer into the mostly empty road. " _The_ Library. It's sort of a legacy, filled with about a millennium's worth of information gathered by various hunters throughout history. Dangerous, if put in the wrong hands, but otherwise extremely useful. I want to probe more deeply into this demon matter."

Thoughtfully, Harry took a bite, quite forgetting that the croissant was still hot, and burned his tongue. He put it down and instead pulled his stockinged feet out of his shoes, wiggling his toes in satisfaction. In his opinion cars were far too cramped to sleep comfortably in.

"Oh, don't," said Victor, disgusted. "Have you even washed them recently? The car's going to reek of smelly feet."

"You're the one who insisted on turning the heat on," Harry protested, nonetheless (but a bit grudgingly) sticking them back into his sneakers. "And if we'd stopped, I'd not only have washed them, but I wouldn't feel the need to stretch either."

"It's my car," said Victor, as if that settled the matter. Harry often thought that he thought that it did. "Besides, we're nearly there."

"Where is the Library anyway?"

"MacDowell estate," Victor told him, and shifted his hands on the wheel (Harry was starting to suspect that it was one of his nervous giveaways). "Plenty of land, little disturbance. It's a very good location."

"You said your mother was a MacDowell."

"She was."

The shortness of his reply was not lost on Harry.

"You go there often?"

"No, this is only my second time. I told you, I'm not on stellar terms with that side of the family."

"So it's a sort of command center for hunters?" Harry guessed, popping the last bit of flaky bread into his mouth. He could imagine what a well of interesting and obscure information that would be, especially if it dated back to the Medieval Ages. It was funny to think that some families were career hunters, just like there were career politicians or career actors. It was like its own little world; rather like wizarding, come to think of it. "That's cool."

"Has anybody ever told you that you're insufferably talkative?"

"Um... now they have?"

Victor said nothing, but looked forbidding. Harry smiled, just a little, and leaned back in his seat. Life felt rather good at the moment. He had had breakfast, a decent one at that and not one of Dudley's rejects; he was with Victor and there was the exciting prospect of more hunting ahead; the sky was blue, the air was clear, the hills were beautiful, and he was happy.

Happy. He frowned at that and wondered why the feeling was so foreign. It felt like his first Christmas at Hogwarts, when Ron had given him that very small pack of Chocolate Frogs (that he had proceeded to demolish half of, but it was the thought that counted after all). It also felt rather like Margaret standing up for him against Draco. Or Hagrid making him a cup of tea even after he had deliberately dug for information. Or Hermione helping him with his papers out of the goodness of her heart (perhaps some self-satisfaction as well, but that was merely a technicality).

"I feel good, you know?" he announced, spreading his arms in demonstration. "This is nice. I think I'm happy."

"Well, aren't you just a little bundle of sunshine?" Victor remarked, in a dry voice.

Harry sat up.

"No, really," he insisted, more seriously. "I mean, Victor, I've got friends. Nice friends. And I had a croissant for breakfast. Don't you look at the world like that sometimes? Like, all of a sudden, it hits you that life is pretty good?"

He could see a sort of thoughtfulness on the older man's face.

"Probably not as often as I should," he admitted. Then he added snidely, "But you do enough for both of us."

"Funny. Are we going to go on a hunt after we visit the library?" asked Harry, hurriedly changing the subject before Victor had a chance to heckle him further.

"If that thing ends up having been a demon, I'm going after it. I blacked out after it threw me, so it's still running around loose somewhere in Scotland. Unfortunately, if it's possession, it might be able to switch hosts..."

"It can," Harry interrupted. He scratched the back of his head apologetically as Victor's eyes narrowed on him. "I ran into the same demon twice, in two different bodies. One was a librarian, the other was my friend's friend."

"The dead one," stated Victor insensitively, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.

"Yeah, the... dead one."

"Wonderful. Now I don't know if I _can_ track it down."

"We're going to try anyway, aren't we?"

"How did you guess?"

Victor swerved abruptly and Harry had to grab his armrest to steady himself.

"Be careful!"

Now they were driving on an overgrown gravel road that had been mostly hidden from the main roads by thick bushes and trees. Harry thought he saw something (a camera lens?) glint from one of the branches, but they flashed by too quickly for him to observe it more closely. Hunters were a paranoid bunch.

"You think _that_ was reckless?" Victor scoffed, eyes trained on the road ahead with something like trepidation. "Wait until you see my cousin Bethany's driving. It would be better suited to the Grand Prix."

"I thought you didn't know your cousins."

"Did I say that?" asked Victor flippantly. "I told you I wasn't close to them. I _know_ them well enough – a little better than I wish I did, in fact. On occasion I team up with the younger generation. Bethany's not a bad sort, but the others..."

He twisted his mouth in a way that was explanation enough. They didn't like him, he didn't like them, end of story. Bethany had to be all right, though, because Victor's "not a bad" sort, job, person, hunter – any one could work – was the equivalent of a normal person's "pretty good," or at least near it. Harry didn't pry.

"Are we staying overnight?"

"Not if I can help it, but we might have to."

"It would be interesting," Harry coaxed, wanting very much to investigate this supposedly legendary paradise of supernatural intelligence.

" _Interesting_ doesn't quite have enough pull."

"It'll be useful."

"Possibly."

"Come on, Victor, please? I've never been to a hunters' hub before. Think about all the things I could learn there."

He could see him start to waver.

"Maybe one night."

"A week?" Harry suggested eagerly.

Victor huffed incredulously.

"I don't know in what language one night translates into a week. Two nights, maximum. Then we're out of there like a shot."

"Okay," Harry agreed, beaming, and nestled comfortably against the door. "Thanks."

Victor set his jaw grimly. The next bump they went over jostled the car so badly that Harry had to sit up so that his ribs wouldn't get bruised from the impact. He kept his mouth shut, though.

When they got out and continued on foot, Victor was silent, but he looked more and more like he wanted to make a U-turn and hightail it out of MacDowell territory before he had to confront any of his relatives. He walked on doggedly, however, stopping only at a fence post to dial some numbers into the box hidden inside and press his thumb onto a pad to be scanned.

"We're going to have to change that if demons keep running around possessing people," he commented, holding his hand firm as the tiny red light glowed. "Suppose I was demon? I could just walk right in without any bother."

" _Christo_ ," said Harry, suddenly uncertain.

Victor shot him an exasperated look and slammed the box shut. The iron gates in front of them began to creak open, stopping when they were about two feet apart.

"I didn't say I _was_ a demon."

Harry shrugged sheepishly.

"Well, I don't know. Why'd it only open two feet? Suppose you'd brought the car along?"

"Cars come in through a different entrance, but it would have required us to make a extra half hour detour. And think about it. What if you were being chased by a werewolf? Would you want the gates to open all the way so that it could run in right after you?"

"I suppose not."

"There you have it. We hunters may be a curious breed, but we do have our reasons for things."

The gate clanged shut behind them.

"It's about time you dropped by."

Victor stiffened, his hand falling to the lump under his jacket that concealed his revolver. It stopped halfway, hovering rigidly in midair. Harry, less cautious, turned around right away, and probably too quickly for the woman standing behind them, who jerked her rifle up warningly. Harry's eyes widened and he stepped back, holding his hands appeasingly in plain view.

"Whoa, whoa... don't... don't point that at me! Victor, why's she pointing a gun at me? Why does everybody like to point guns at me?"

The crease in her forehead smoothed and her lips seemed almost to twitch. The rifle was lowered as she stepped out of the underbrush.

"Hello, Beth," said Victor, standing close behind him.

Harry would have died before he admitted that it was comforting, but in complete truth it was. It also seemed good insurance against getting shot, as he didn't think cousins liked to shoot each other (except Dudley, perhaps).

With the immediate danger of a fatal gunshot gone, he was at leisure to stare. He had not at all expected Bethany to look anything like she did. She was stocky and of medium height, and looked to be in her late forties, her hair brown with only faint streaks of gray. Her eyes were dark brown in sharp contrast to Victor's pale blue and her face was much less thin.

But then she smiled and he could easily believe that they were related.

"It's good to see you, Vic. How long's it been? Two years?"

"Four actually," Victor corrected, his hand relaxing. "Time flies."

"So it does. Do you want to come in?" She must have seen his hesitation because she continued, "Most of the others are out."

Victor's jaw hardened in that stubborn way that Harry was beginning to recognize. Evidently Bethany recognized it as well.

"Oh, stop it," she said impatiently. "I'm not implying that you're scared of them," she grinned, "which you totally are, I'm just informing you of a lucky detail that might keep you from taking off like a frightened deer before you get what you need. We don't bite, you know."

"Could have fooled me," Victor retorted bitterly.

"Don't be an ass," she returned. "It's unbecoming, and makes you forget important things."

Victor sniffed.

"Like what?" he asked, in a bored tone.

"The name and existence of that boy you brought with you."

Harry suppressed a grin at that and at the expression on Victor's face.

"Harry," he said. "My name's Harry Potter."

Bethany's straight, dark eyebrows shot up.

"Harry Potter, eh?" She looked him over shrewdly. Harry shifted and wondered why she was staring him almost as though she knew what that name meant. But how could she? "Well, what are you doing standing there? Didn't you come here for a reason?"

* * *

The Library was, to put it simply and obviously, a very large library that made up nearly half of the residence. Altogether it came to around eighteen rooms: seventeen were used for all the books, and one had a number of computers for storing digital files. Victor mumbled something about staying out of trouble and situated himself in this last room.

Bethany excused herself, saying that she needed to complete her rounds of the property's perimeter, and Harry started to go through the books. He began with the Aa's (it was all sorted alphabetically, continuing nearly the Ba's (admittedly skipping over a large number of them), but obsessive-compulsiveness only went so far before boredom prevailed. He went to the D's.

There was absolutely nothing about demons besides a casual mention here and there about the occult. Not a single one of the authors seemed concerned about witches, either. In fact, a one Auguste Fiehr wrote in his journal, " _We thought it would be a shapeshifter; instead it turned out to be a damned witch. No need for all the gear after all._ "

Harry chewed on the inside of his cheek contemplatively. Maybe wizards and hunters were not as terrible of a mix as he had suspected. Determined to investigate the matter further, he checked out the W's, which were in the seventeenth room a ways down the hall.

On his way there, he noticed that the Library was mostly empty. It definitely wasn't the hub he had imagined it to be – at any rate, not at the moment – although the information it contained had certainly so far lived up to his expectations. The house (or more accurately, the mansion) was ancient, its exterior structure very similar to castles of old, cold stone and sturdy, while its interior was cherrywood-paneled and dusty, smelling of paper and the rather unpleasant odor of mold. The books were kept on shelves that touched the ceiling; the highest levels could only be reached by ladders and narrow scaffolding (which looked disagreeably unsteady) that wrapped around the entire room.

Unfortunately the Wi's were on that highest level. Harry eyed the rungs of the ladder with some anxiety. They were well-worn by the tread of many hunters over the years and, while he was not very big, they did not look very strong either. But duty called.

Thankfully they held. He balanced on the creaky wooden planks and walked gingerly to the other side of the room. The category of "witches" had a grand total of ten books as opposed to the dozens on other subjects. He pulled open the first one.

 _Witches are seen as malevolent humans, whose souls have been corrupted by demons._

So, to hunters, witches were creatures who had made deals with demons... not harmless people with natural magic. He mentally noted that.

 _However, this is a common misrepresentation of these people, who are not often a threat to the general population. Most of their reputation comes from their less than appealing spell work, which sometimes requires the use of materials such as the bones of infants, human blood, and various body parts, human or otherwise._

Grimacing, Harry shoved the book back into its small gap and resolved not to look at any more. It sounded more like they were talking about psychopaths than wizards. Either way, he changed his mind once again; wizards and hunters _were_ a terrible mix. Better to zip his mouth shut and not try to dig his own grave.

* * *

Adam pulled a plate out of the cabinet. There was a movement somewhere partly behind him, and his heart seemed to skip. _Crash_ went the plate to the ground, and he spun in time to see the man from the alley bursting into laughter.

"How the _hell_ did you get in?!" Adam exploded, his heart pounding in his throat. His hands trembled and he gripped the stiff fabric of his jeans to still them.

"Uh... I came in with _you_ , boy-o." He rolled his eyes. "What did you think? I don't break into people's homes without being invited."

"Shut up! I didn't invite you and you sure as hell weren't there when I opened the door!"

The man sighed deeply and kicked back in one of the dining chairs, looking for all the world like he was an old friend visiting for the hundredth time. He pulled out a wicked-looking knife and absently started to scratch under his nails with the sharpened edge.

"Look, Adam, I don't mean to intrude..."

"And how the hell do you know my name, anyway?"

"Whew." He frowned. "Not only foul-mouthed, but not very creative either. You sure don't remind me of _someone_."

His tone indicated the opposite. Adam could feel a panic attack coming on. He didn't have panic attacks. He wasn't supposed to. But coldness was bursting through his head and the world was spinning around him and he _couldn't breathe_ and what the _hell_ was happening?

"You're not real," he gasped, sliding to the ground and burying his face against his knees. "You're not. I'm really crazy."

A foot prodded him and he jerked away.

"Well, what do you know? You can feel me. Doesn't sound like I'm," he made exaggerated hand quotes, "'not real' to me."

He looked peevish and the temperature seemed to drop several degrees.

"Of course not," Adam snapped, almost choking on the words. "You're the hallucination. Of course you're going to say that. I don't know why," he waved his hand wildly around, " _you_ showed up, out of everyone I've met, because I don't even _remember_ you..."

"Aw, I'm hurt. Wittle Adamsie doesn't remember me. I tried so hard to be memorable."

"... but I know one thing for sure," Adam told him harshly, "and that's that you. Don't. Exist."

This couldn't really be happening. He could hear screaming in his ears (not his own... or was it?) and he could feel the rising terror as he stared at the half-remembered figure before him, and if any of this was real he wouldn't hesitate it the slightest before putting a bullet through his brain. But why? _Why_? Nothing made sense.

The man – no, not a man, who was he... _what_ was he? – crouched down beside him and squeezed his shoulder coaxingly. His touch was icy.

"Hey, you remember," he said soothingly. "Don't you? Come on, you know you do."

"No." Adam shook his head frantically, panic racing through him. He whipped his head around, only to see the silver knife gleaming against the floor next to the dark red blood clots and flesh. "No. No! Be quiet. Be _quiet_ , you're not real! You can't be real. None of this is real."

He could smell the blood, metallic, warm, red. _Sam, where are you?_ Who was Sam? A sob wrenched his throat and he pulled himself into a tight ball. _What's happening to me?_

And he screamed.

* * *

 **Aagh, I feel kind of bad for putting Adam through all this, but it's not like he's going to get out of the Cage unscathed. Death wasn't even there to put up a wall.**

 **Crapsticks, I'm inundating this story with OCs. I swear, once you put one in, promising yourself that that'll be it, a whole army of them crashes down on your head because, hey, the first one needs a background, and the people in the background need backgrounds, and the people in the background of the background people need backgrounds, etc. etc. etc. Yeah, sucky. And not my fault.**

 **Reviews – especially constructive criticism – are always very much appreciated! Thank you!**


	15. Chapter 15

**Thank you to kaida171, god of all, TrunksIzayaBossKadoDRRRotaku, Established Insanity, VanriddleZ, Akayuki Novak, Lathea, OtakuDrag0n, Kimpatsu no Hoseki, luv-blonde-bunny, Umbra.V (again, apologies, some weird glitch prevents me from writing your full username), and Rosalind Fairchilde for your awesome reviews!**

 **Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me except for parts of the story line and my little twists. Things you recognize are probably from the books or TV show.**

* * *

BOOK ONE

Chapter XV

* * *

" _This is Adam. I can't come to the phone right now, but if you leave a message, I'll get back to you as soon as I can._ "

 _Beep_.

"Hey, it's Harry. I'm just checking to see how you're doing. Um... you can call me back if you have time. Or not. I mean, I'm... uh... well, bye."

Inhaling deeply – he hadn't even realized that he hadn't taken a breath in between sentences – Harry hung up and pocketed his cellphone. He secretly suspected that he had left a rubbish message. Victor looked up from the gas nozzle, rubbing absently at his rather long nose, which was red from cold.

"How's your friend?"

Harry shrugged.

"He didn't pick up."

"Try again later, I suppose."

The Library had given them no further instructions on how to deal with demons. As a result, they were flying blind towards a possible sighting in an area that was even further north. While he had made certain that Victor had stocked himself well with all the known defenses, Harry was rather nervous about coming face to face with another one of the creatures.

"Do we have enough holy water?" he asked, although he had already asked the same question dozens of times before. To Victor's credit, he didn't brush it off, but replied patiently with the same answer he had given just as many times.

"Two gallons should be plenty. Besides, we're not heading into the wilderness; there are plenty of places we can get ahold of more."

Harry nodded, more to himself than to Victor, and fidgeted.

"What about..."

"Yes," Victor cut in, apparently having finally reached the point where some of his irritation had to spill out. "We have a ten pound bag of rock salt, which will be more than enough. Stop worrying. Neither of us are going to die."

"That's what everyone says, and then they do," said Harry morbidly, and hunkered down in his seat. "The second time is always the most dangerous. That's when people get overconfident but are still too inexperienced to dodge danger."

"Trust me, you're not overconfident."

"Don't say that." Harry covered his ears. "No, I'll pretend I didn't hear it. Don't try to be encouraging. I need to keep this level of fear. It's very important."

"Harry." Victor's voice sounded gentler. "We're going to be fine. Really."

"You don't understand. I can't get cocky. Demons are evil, they're powerful, they're really dangerous, and a boy who was my age was murdered by one of them just because he was starting to remember what happened when he was possessed."

"Harry..."

"Look, can we just stop and get some lunch?" Harry interrupted desperately, and as Victor opened his mouth to say something he was pretty sure would turn out to be intended consolation, he added hurriedly, "I like sandwiches. And soup. And... and chicken."

Victor looked like he was going to say something anyway, but thought the better of it.

"Soup and sandwiches and chicken it is," he replied agreeably, and although Harry knew it wasn't going to be the end of the discussion, he was glad that they wouldn't be continuing just yet.

* * *

The bathroom of Alice Haegen's Pub – or whatever it was called – was thoroughly disgusting. The toilets had crud clinging to them all the way up the bowls, the sink pipes were leaking badly, the window had a long, crooked crack in its glass, and puddles of repulsive liquid splotched the floor. The one stall that _had_ a lock had a rusty, decrepit lock that squeaked loudly in protest when Harry tried to shove it in place. It seemed the perfect place for a drug deal or... or something that Harry couldn't think of because he wasn't well versed in that sort of crime. It was just shady.

However, the pub did have sandwiches, and since Victor appeared to believe that that was Harry's only requirement, they had stopped there for food and rest. Victor was popping open the cap of his beer as Harry made his way through the scruffy, not-so-classy folk that constituted the majority of Alice's patrons to their booth, which was conveniently located in the back and facing the door.

"How was the loo?" Victor greeted him.

Harry slid into the bench opposite.

"I have no words."

"That bad?"

Victor's eyes flashed black. Harry let out a stifled yell of terror and threw himself out of the seat. Instead of landing on the ground, he slammed into something relatively soft. It grunted. Eyes squeezed tightly shut, Harry frowned. Something wasn't quite right.

"Wha..." he started, sitting up. He was still sitting in the passenger seat of Victor's car. "Why... what happened?" His gaze fell on Victor and he inhaled sharply. "You! You were possessed!"

"No, it was a nightmare, Harry," Victor informed him, calmly and steadily. "I'm not possessed. Look, I can say _Christo_ without anything happening."

"Your eyes were black," Harry continued, ignoring his words as images flashed before his eyes. He scrubbed at his cheek feverishly. "You were possessed, I saw you. I tried to run away, but I couldn't. And I couldn't help you either. I couldn't do anything."

"Harry!" He shut up. Victor rarely rose his voice. "Harry," Victor repeated, more quietly this time, "say _Christo_."

"But I..."

"Say it."

Harry swallowed.

" _Christo_."

He held his breath but nothing happened. Victor's eyes were just as clearly blue as ever.

"I'm not possessed. It was a nightmare. A nightmare, do you hear me? We have them. All hunters do. You're fine, I'm fine, and there are no demons in this car."

"Nightmare," Harry echoed, his fingers relaxing from their inadvertent hold on his knees.

"Yeah."

Harry took a deep breath.

"Right. Thanks. I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize. It's perfectly normal."

"Not for me."

"Then you have to get used to it," Victor told him, not unkindly.

"Being a hunter is awful."

"And yet we carry on. Sometimes I wonder why. Do you still feel up to stopping for lunch?"

There did not appear to be an Alice Haegen's Pub anywhere in the near vicinity.

"I think so."

They pulled into the parking lot of a bistro in the next town, but Harry didn't get up. He wasn't sure if his legs were steady enough yet for him to walk inside. Victor did not make any move to open his door either.

"You know," he said finally, drumming his fingers against the console, "it does get better. Give yourself some time."

"Do I want it to get better?" asked Harry, aware that the question did not make much sense but hoping that Victor would understand his meaning. Victor shot him a sidelong glance.

"It depends. If you're going to head down this career path, you're going to need it to. Maybe you won't be as empathetic as the average person or nearly as ethical, but that won't be your purpose. You'll never survive if it is." He let Harry ponder that for a minute or two, and then he cleared his throat and pushed his door open. "I'm going in. Are you coming?"

"Yeah," said Harry, still thoughtful, and followed him out.

* * *

" _This is Adam. I can't come to the phone right now, but if you leave a message, I'll get back to you as soon as I can._ "

 _Beep_.

"Hi Adam, it's Harry again. You didn't call back after my last message, and it's been a few weeks now. I hope everything's okay. Call me back if you have the chance."

* * *

When they finally caught up with the demon, nearly a month after they had first been contacted about its sighting, they were the ones who were ambushed. In fact, neither of them were even aware that they were in the same town as it (they were only tracking its known whereabouts). Victor was buying groceries at the shop down the road and Harry was sitting in their hotel room trying to make sense of its path through the number of towns it had hit.

He looked up as a knock sounded on the door. Invested in his research, he absentmindedly pulled back the bolt and plopped back on his chair. It was only when the door slammed loudly that he thought to look up again and stared into the smiling face of a curly-haired woman, who smiled down at him from an impressive height.

"Hey, Scar-Head. Long time no see."

For a split second, Harry thought he was having a nightmare again, but the knife that snagged his arm just as he jerked away was all too real. He lunged off his chair and moved in a defensive position behind the table.

"Hullo-o," he said slowly, stalling for time. His heart felt like it was trying to pump its way out of his chest. "How did you find me?"

He kept one eye on the door, praying that Victor would head back soon, and snuck a glance at the bottle of holy water on the dresser. It was exactly ten feet away from him; there was no way he would be able to grab it before she caught him. The demon shook her finger at him.

"Nuh-uh, little boy," she crooned. "Don't you head thataway."

Harry tried to think of something else to say, but all his thoughts fled.

" _Exorcizamus te_ ," he blurted out instead, " _omnis immundus..._ "

Her eyes darkened in anger and she flung her hand out. Choking, he fell silent.

"Dear me," she hissed, circling to his side. He watched her with wide eyes, gripping the edge of the table for support. "And I was all ready to play nice. I guess one doesn't always get what one wants."

She thrust her hand at him and he flew through the air, crashing painfully into the wall opposite. His head cracked against the hard wood.

"Wait," he croaked, holding up an unsteady hand. She was walking towards him now. The whole room seemed to rock back and forth crazily. The demon's eyes were black, swinging back, and forth, and back, and forth, and... and Harry felt like he was about to throw up. "You... you're not here to kill me, are you? You... you can't kill me. I'm important. Too important to kill. I'm... I'm useless dead."

He knew he was digging for something that could very well be nonexistent, but the demon that had been posted in Neville hadn't killed him, had told him that he was _watching_ him, so they had to have some use for him. If demons were all in cahoots, then this one couldn't kill him either. Provided they were in cahoots. Cahoots was an interesting word. He also liked the word... hooligan, for example. Cahooligan, when they were both put together.

Harry shook his head at himself. He didn't have the luxury to ramble right now.

"Unfortunately... you're... right... I can't kill you..."

He blinked up at her. Her voice seemed to bounce around.

"Oh, look," he told her suddenly. "There's Victor."

He watched contentedly as she frowned at him in confusion and started to turn around. It was too late. A knife was already poking through her chest and she was staring down at it with a puzzled expression as blood began to leak out around it, and then she... pulled it out? Harry scowled.

" _Exorcizamus te_ ," he began again, determinedly. He thought he had told Victor they couldn't be killed. " _Omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii..._ "

Victor was trying to hold her down know, and she tossed him off easily until he sprayed holy water in her face, She screamed. Harry continued the exorcism, stumbling a little over parts, but fortunately he had it pretty well memorized.

" _Te rogamus, audi nos!_ " he finished triumphantly, and stared at the black smoke that billowed above them. His head was starting to clear.

The woman crumpled to the ground and Victor was yelling at him now, grabbing her and lifting her onto the bed, and Harry was confused until he saw the blood seeping all over the front of her shirt. He choked on his next words.

"Oh, God. Oh, God, Victor, is she going to be okay?"

"I don't _know_!" Victor snapped, working feverishly to staunch the wound. The woman moaned as he pressed his jacket to her chest, the thick, dark fabric rapidly getting soaked through. Panting, Victor pressed harder for what felt like hours but could only have been seconds, and then he released the wad of cloth with a grunt. "It's really bad. I can't take care of her. We have to bring her to the hospital."

The drive over was more a blur than anything else. Harry was crammed in the back, her head on his lap, while Victor drove at speeds that would have brought every policeman within a five mile radius screeching towards them if they were not in such a remote area. Harry didn't realize he was crying until he saw the droplets beading on her hair.

The situation seemed almost surreal. When they barged into the emergency room, Victor cradling the woman, her black hair curling over his shoulder and stained with blood, the doctors and nurses started to crowd around, speaking rapidly in medical lingo that didn't make sense. Harry stumbled in after Victor, his head still pounding painfully, and watched as they put the woman on a gurney and wheeled her away. He collapsed in the nearest seat, barely listening to the person beside him, who he suspected was trying to comfort him. He could still see the blood pouring out of that jagged hole in her chest.

 _Please let her live. Please let her be all right._

* * *

Harry lifted his head when he heard footsteps approach him. The empty corridor echoed harshly. Victor's face was completely blank as he sat down stiffly on the chair beside him.

"She's dead," he stated, staring at his interlocked hands. "Linda Simmons, thirty-four year old accountant, mother of three young children. Church of England, an active parishioner. They IDed her... she's from this town. She sounded like a wonderful lady."

Without looking at Harry, he rubbed the sleeve of his shirt across his face. Harry drew a shivery breath and examined the dry bit of blood caked under his nail.

"I killed her."

Harry looked up then, stricken by the guilt in his voice.

"She was possessed," he offered as poor comfort. "And you tried."

"I really didn't. Besides, it doesn't matter. She's still dead." They sat in silence for many long minutes. Victor's shirt was stained all over the front and Harry thought of the abandoned wad back at their hotel room that had been his jacket. He doubted it was salvageable.

Victor swallowed and shot him a wan smile.

"We should probably go now. Don't want to have to answer any inquiries."

They left the next day, but not before reading the headlines of the local newspaper.

" _Body Found_ ," it read. " _Ash Markings Around Victim, Trademark of New Serial Killer?_ "

The article delved into theories about a number of murders had probably been committed by the demon they had exorcised. Unfortunately the ash markings were the only thing tying them all together, and although Harry knew – and he knew Victor knew as well – that they should have investigated, they didn't. When questioned, Victor set his lips in a thin line.

"I know we _should_ ," he answered, "but I honestly don't feel like spending another minute here. In fact, I would perfectly content never to set eyes on this place again in my life."

That was that. Privately, Harry felt a wave of relief roll over him when the village disappeared from their rear window.

Victor stopped several towns away to discard a lumpy package in a dumpster, and he returned with a grim air. Harry never did ask what had happened to the bloody clothes. Some things were better left alone.

* * *

" _This is Adam. I can't come to the phone right now, but if you leave a message, I'll get back to you as soon as I can._ "

 _Beep_.

"Adam, I don't know what's up with you, but I'm sort of concerned. You haven't answered any of my calls or messages, and I'm probably being really annoying, but please call back."

* * *

"It's been more than a month now. You're not dead or anything, are you?"

* * *

"I'll be heading your way soon and I think I'll check up on your flat. I hope I won't find your rotting corpse inside."

* * *

 _Five missed calls._ Adam gazed at the neon red letters in dismay and punched the playback button, listening guiltily as the panic rose in Harry's voice with each consecutive message. He bit back a chuckle, though, at the "rotting corpse" part before deciding it was probably inappropriate, not to mention morbid, to be laughing at the thought of his own dead body.

He dialed the number and waited.

" _Hello?_ "

Suddenly uncertain, Adam wondered if he had made the right choice in calling so abruptly. Something crackled in the background and he heard someone else's muffled voice ask who was calling.

" _Is somebody there?_ "

He slapped himself mentally and nodded.

"Yeah, it's Adam," he said, remembering in time that he was on the phone and Harry couldn't see him.

" _Adam?!_ " The word came out as a yelp, and there was a loud rustle before Harry spoke again, much more loudly. " _I thought you were dead or something!_ "

"I gathered as much from your messages."

" _You listened to those?_ " There seemed to be a degree of embarrassment in his tone. " _I didn't know what had happened. I'm sorry..._ "

"No, no," Adam interrupted hurriedly. "It's fine. I'm sorry myself for not answering. I was... detained."

There was a brief silence.

" _Detained?_ "

Harry's voice was high and much sharper than Adam would have thought possible. He turned around, shuddering a little but ignoring the hazy figure that stared at him in the corner of his eye, and sat down on the couch. It was still lumpy. He sighed.

"Yeah, it was head problem. I was stuck in the hospital for a spell."

" _A head problem?_ "

He tapped his fingers against the phone nervously, not really wanting to give an explanation but feeling that Harry deserved one after such a long period of radio silence.

"I was seeing and hearing stuff," he said stiffly. "This guy kept talking to me, threatening me about something. They kept me in a psychiatric hospital for a few weeks."

There was another silence.

" _You mean you're crazy._ "

Harry sounded doubtful. Adam winced.

"Well... for lack of better wording, yes. I suppose."

" _Oh_." Harry said nothing for several long moments. " _That's bad_."

"I'm on medication now, so it's okay. It's under control anyway."

" _What's it like?_ "

His rather improper curiosity made Adam want to laugh, but he checked himself.

"There's this woman," he explained, uncomfortably, because he could still see her in the corner of his eye. "I don't know her, but somehow I know she's my mother. I see her in my peripheral vision, just standing there, but when I look around, a silver knife drives through her stomach and she starts coughing and choking up blood. I used to look around all the time before I learned what caused that reaction. Now I try to ignore her as best I can, although I do still slip up sometimes."

" _That sounds horrible. Why would you see her? Do you think it's a memory or something?_ " said Harry, his voice strangled, although that could have been because of the crummy connection.

"It could be, but I only feel a mild emotional connection when it happens. The doctor said it most likely isn't a proper memory, possibly a traumatizing childhood nightmare. You know, I never thought people had hallucinations of such gruesome things. Or it's just me." He smiled a little. "Maybe I have some tragic backstory, like a superhero. I've got a handle on it, though. How are you doing?"

" _Well, my head's fine,_ " Harry quipped weakly. After a beat, he appeared to realize that his admittedly lame joke had fallen flat, because he added, " _That's not very funny, is it? I don't think it's funny either, actually. I'm really very sorry all this stuff is happening to you. I hope you're ok..._ "

"Harry," Adam broke in, his lips twitching. "It's fine. Calm down."

Harry paused.

" _Okay. So, I've been taking a drive thingy around the country with a frie..._ " Someone hissed something in the background and Harry apparently covered the mouthpiece with his hand because there was a loud burst of static before he returned. " _Sorry about that. Connection went bad. As I was saying, I was driving around the country with my uncle. You know my uncle, right? You met him at Christmas._ "

"Yes."

" _Well, anyway, it's been an all right summer so far. I'll be heading back to school in a few weeks. Oh, by the way, guess what?_ "

Adam waited.

"Right," he remembered finally. "I have to guess. Uh, I don't know. Did you get a pet? A kitten or a puppy or something?"

" _I already have an owl,_ " Harry returned, mild disgust coloring his tone. " _No, my f... ow!_ uncle _bought me a revolver._ "

Adam blinked.

"That's cool."

" _I know. It is, isn't it?_ "

"You have an owl?"

" _Yeah. Her name's Hedwig. She's very well trained._ "

" _... didn't know... you... owl..._ "

Clearly Harry's uncle had been in the dark about Hedwig as well.

" _I don't keep her with me all the time_ ," Harry explained further. " _She likes to fly a lot by herself and then join up with me every once in a while. She's very intelligent._ "

"I don't doubt that. Maybe I should get one."

" _They're very hard to find. You could try to catch one._ "

"Very funny." He slid his eyes to the side accidentally and they landed on the blonde woman, who stared sadly back at him as the knife pierced all the way through her, flesh and bones crunching sickeningly. A thin dribble of blood slipped down her chin. Adam flinched and looked away. "You know what?" His voice cracked on the last word. "I should probably go."

" _Oh_." Harry sounded disappointed. " _All right. What do you have to do?_ "

Adam sighed. That was a whole new headache.

"Well, I was fired from my last job because they didn't want a lunatic manning the cash register, so I have to job hunt. The rent doesn't exactly pay itself."

" _Then good luck. I hope you find something quickly._ "

"Thanks. Me too."

" _Goodbye, Adam._ "

"Bye, Harry."

He heard a click as Harry hung up. As he stood to return the telephone to his place, he caught a movement again in the corner of his eye.

 _Ignore it._

He carefully kept his gaze away from that direction, but the figure, instead of staying in place, walked around directly in front of him. Adam groaned as he recognized the now all-too-familiar face. Alley Man grinned almost to the roots of his dirty blond hair.

"Boo," he said, and threw a sharp-pointed dart at Adam's chest.

Adam winced, rubbing reflexively at the spot it hit although he knew there was nothing there.

Time for his meds.

* * *

Harry flicked lazily through the television channels, passing over a number of cheesy teenage dramas and black-and-white movies and eventually settling on a news channel. They had stopped by Blair's cottage for a few days' rest and some home-cooked meals – something Harry had been sorely missing, even Petunia's, as they had practically lived on sandwiches during the past few weeks. He didn't think he ever wanted to see a sandwich again.

"Can you give me a shooting lesson?" he asked, toying with his new revolver.

To Harry's shock and extreme pleasure, Victor had remembered the general time of year during which he had his birthday and bought a six-shooter on the sly, along with a very handsome box of silver bullets. They worked on werewolves, he had explained, as well as shapeshifters, rougarous, and other such nasty creatures. To Harry's further pleasure, the initials _H. P._ were engraved on the handle. He ran his fingers admiringly over the shiny barrel.

"I already gave you three," said Victor, not looking up from his sports magazine. "You're a natural. Go practice by yourself."

Harry inspected the outdoors with a skeptical eye. It was gray again, and windy. He shivered.

"Maybe not. I'll start some dinner."

Victor glanced up sharply.

"You know how to cook?"

Harry frowned.

"Yes. I used to do it all the time. I can cook," he put down the gun and began to list them off on his fingers, "spaghetti, omelette, bacon, chicken stew, fried fish..."

"That's quite the repertoire for a thirteen-year-old boy. No need to continue," said Victor dryly, turning back to his magazine, although there was a pensive look in his eyes. "I don't doubt you. By all means, start some dinner."

" _... news of convict Sirius Black's escape has just reached us._ " The news lady's words, suddenly loud in the ensuing silence, caught Harry's attention. " _We encourage all law-abiding citizens to be on their guard. Black, a notorious criminal guilty of multiple murders of the first degree, has now been missing for over eight hours..._ "

Victor put down the paper and stared at the television set.

"Sirius Black? I feel like I've heard the name before."

"Where?"

He seemed to contemplate this for a few moments.

"I think Beth told me," he said finally, reclining and reading more about Hampton's winning streak in football, or something similar. Harry couldn't quite make out the title of the article. "Back... oh, a decade or so ago. I was a teenager and didn't pay much attention, but she seemed relieved about Black's incarceration."

"I guess it must be bad he's out then. Do you think anyone is in danger?"

"He would want to keep his head down, so I doubt it. Besides, they'll catch him quickly enough. He's too high profile to stay hidden for long and, what with security footage and all their various little toys, the government has plenty to work with."

"I'd like to look him up," Harry decided. "Can I borrow your computer? I forgot mine at Aunt Petunia's house."

"What happened to making dinner?" Victor shot back, but good-humoredly handed over the laptop. "Don't get it dirty."

"I would never," Harry mumbled, already typing furiously. "I'll check my email, too... kill too birds with one stone. I haven't in more than two months."

He signed in and was greeted with the familiar mountain backdrop.

 **INBOX, 4 unread emails.**

He clicked on the first.

 **From: Hermione Granger**

 **To: Harry Potter**

 _Hi Harry,_

 _It's cool you have an email address! You know, I otherwise have only five contacts? Not a single one of our wizard friends have one (understandably, but it's still rather aggravating). How's your summer been so far?_

 _We're going to Blackpool for one week in late June, so don't be angry if I don't answer you for a bit. I've gone ahead and bought next year's textbooks, so I think I'll skim over them while we're there so I won't be caught too much off guard by any new material. You should do the same._

 _Anyway, Ron's promised to send me an owl now and then, but of course you know how Ron's promises turn out to be. I really don't think he even intends not to make good on them... he's just sort of forgetful._

 _I'd better go. I've got some chores to do and then Mum and Dad are taking me out for lunch along with my cousin because his mum and dad are busy._

 _Your friend,_

 _Hermione Granger_

He almost replied to that one, but decided instead to read the rest and see how the situation developed. Towards the end of them, she could not have been too happy with his lack of response. He might have to address some of those issues.

 **From: Hermione Granger**

 **To: Harry Potter**

 _Hi Harry,_

 _Back from Blackpool. I see you didn't answer my last email. Oh, well. Maybe you're busy._

 _Blackpool was nice, but I generally prefer not to get wet and dirty, even if it's hot out, so I think Mum and Dad enjoyed the trip more than me. But it was nice to spend time with them._

 _Ron has actually sent me one letter! The Weasleys' poor old owl – I forgot his name, isn't that terrible? – was practically staggering under the rather light weight of it. Ron said he's doing fine, although Fred and George's pranks seem to have gotten out of hand to the point where Mrs. Weasley has them doing chores for most of the day. Unfortunately Ron has been blackmailed into doing a lot of them._

 _I've gone over three of the text books and they don't seem too difficult as of yet. I'll send you any particular points I think you should read ahead of time._

 _Oh, and I just remembered, this year we'll be allowed to go to Hogsmeade! You know, the little town near Hogwarts? All students from third year up are allowed to go on weekends and holidays and things. I can't believe we're already heading into third year. It's almost a ludicrous idea, but I'm very excited._

 _Your friend,_

 _Hermione Granger_

 **From: Hermione Granger**

 **To: Harry Potter**

 _Harry!_

 _This is terrible, please answer! Ron just sent me an owl saying that Dumbledore visited the Burrow and that you were missing from your aunt and uncle's house! Oh, dear, is that why you haven't been answering all this time?_

 _Please be all right. I've been blathering about Blackpool and textbooks and Hogsmeade when you could be wandering homeless through London. Or maybe you were kidnapped! I'm very anxious. Please reply as soon as possible._

 _Your friend,_

 _Hermione Granger_

 **From: Hermione Granger**

 **To: Harry Potter**

 _Harry, I don't know what's happened to you, but I hope it's nothing too bad. There's been a search going on for several weeks but nobody's even had a sighting yet. It's ridiculous that I'm even trying to contact you through your email, but I haven't quite lost hope yet._

 _Even worse, news has got out that Sirius Black, a very dangerous wizard, has escaped from Azkhaban. Harry, Azkhaban is the most well-protected prison in the world! Mr. Weasley is at his wits' end. He let slip one night that the Ministry suspects Black escaped to find you._

 _I'm just praying now that you're okay._

 _Your friend,_

 _Hermione_

* * *

 **Whew, that took a while. This chapter is especially lengthy. And guess what, AFITR is already nearly as long as Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's/Philosopher's Stone! I've been working on it for nearly seven whole months!**

 **Reviews – especially constructive criticism – are always very much appreciated! Thank you!**


	16. Chapter 16

**IMPORTANT NOTICE: Last chapter had a _different_ demon! Not the Neville demon, a new one. Sorry for not making that clear, but, no, the Neville demon does _not_ have a weird obsession with following Harry around and hounding him. I know the demon insinuated that she'd seen him before, but keep in mind that Harry is not a low profile kid. I mean, hell, he made headlines before he could talk. Besides, if the demons have plans for him, they're going to keep more than one pair of eyes on him.**

 **Anyway, now that that's clear, thank you to all you lovely reviewers, listed below: Sianna Scale, Established Insanity, Umbra.V (sorry), Lathea, god of all, VanriddleZ, Kimpatsu no Hoseki, OtakuDrag0n, and luv-blonde-bunny. You guys are awesome!**

 **Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me except for parts of the story line and my little twists. Things you recognize are probably from the books or TV show.**

* * *

BOOK ONE

Chapter XVI

* * *

 **From: Harry Potter**

 **To: Hermione Granger**

 _Hi Hermione,_

 _I'm ever so sorry. I'm perfectly fine and I've not been kidnapped. I had no idea everyone would be so worried... I didn't really think about that. There was an incident where I used accidental magic and I thought the Ministry might snap my wand, so I left while I could. I'm with a friend of mine at the moment, but he moves around a lot. That's probably why no one could find me. Don't worry. I'm very all right, and I'll see you soon at Platform 9 3/4._

 _I heard about Sirius Black, coincidentally, on the television of all things. I guess he must be a dangerous enough criminal that even Muggles know about him. By the way, if you catch sight of me outside the platform, don't start yelling about spells and wands, because my friend doesn't know about wizards._

 _I hope you've all had a good summer and I'm really very sorry that I worried you._

 _Harry_

Harry let the arrow hover over "send" for a beat before clicking. Hopefully the email would explain things clearly. Hermione wouldn't be too pleased with him – nor would the Weasleys, for that matter – and to be honest he did not blame them. It had been careless and thoughtless of him to disappear off the face of the earth for the whole summer. He wondered for what reasons the Ministry had participated in the search. To keep their Boy Who Lived safe? Merely to maintain appearances? Or to catch him and break his wand?

"Finally finished explaining to your friend? You know you've been sitting at that computer for more than three hours. I need to use it at some point."

"Sorry," Harry muttered, checking and rechecking that the email had been sent before closing the laptop. He stood and puffed lightly as a lank strand of black hair fell over his eyes. Victor manifested in the doorway of the bedroom, halfheartedly drying his coffee mug.

"I found another hunt," he remarked sunnily. Prospective hunts tended to put him in a mood that was macabre in its cheerfulness. "It appears a spirit has been strangling tenants inside some building a few dozen miles south of here. What do you say we take a test run with that revolver of yours? You'll need iron bullets this time. Silver doesn't work on ghosts... spirits," he corrected himself at Harry's pointed grin. "Damn your evil influence; you've corrupted me."

Harry held out the laptop, forgetting momentarily that both of Victor's hands were full. He waited for him to put the mug away and followed him into the kitchen.

"I actually need to leave for school soon," Harry told him, perching himself on the closest stool and watching as Victor deftly spun the computer around to face him. "Summer's almost over."

"Oh, that's fine," said Victor, waving a dismissive hand. His eyes were gleaming with enthusiasm, and he looked very like a little boy on Christmas morning. Whatever the contents of the screen, they were obviously pleasing to him. "It'll be done in a jiffy. Vengeful spirit jobs usually are. I'd be willing to bet you'll even have time to spare afterwards."

"Victor." Victor didn't bother to look up, but grunted an acknowledgment. Harry persisted resolutely. "By soon I mean three days, Victor. I've got to be at King's Cross station in three days."

"All right, I'll drop you there."

"It's not really on the way."

"Oh, don't make a fuss out of nothing. I'll take a detour. Do you mind being alone for a bit? I don't think it would be best for me to stick around with a spirit on the loose, but if you have a great aversion to wandering about London on your own I can stay until you leave."

"I'm thirteen," Harry informed him, vaguely insulted. "I'll be all right."

As a matter of fact, he couldn't have asked for a neater tactic for keeping Victor from finding out about Diagon Alley. He had not bought a single one of the third year books (thank heavens Hermione, bless her heart, had sent him all the titles and authors) and he had been trying to figure a way past that problem. He had almost decided that he would have to owl Ron about the books and pay him back.

"Keep your knife with you at all times." In spite of his show of unconcern, Victor sounded rather worried. "Gun loaded, safety on, and for God's sake hide it. It wouldn't do at all for you to go traipsing about with it on your hip for the whole world to see – or really all the policeman, because those are who you have to be careful for. Don't forget the holy water or the salt l..."

"Or the salt lines, I know," Harry told him, with a slight smile. He flipped open his jacket to show him the holy water bottle and bag of salt that were stashed inside. "Victor, I know all that. I told you, I'll be fine. It won't even be for a full three days. I could even owl... _call_ someone from school to pick me up if I need to."

Victor's eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch and he slammed the computer shut.

"One thing I don't understand about you," he complained, scratching his unshaven chin lightly, "is your obsession with owls. Wise, my arse. I always found them sneaky creatures."

"What?" Harry spluttered indignantly, determined to defend Hedwig's honor. "Who's calling whom sneaky? You prowl about graveyards at night and dig up poor people's bones."

"No, I don't. Well," he conceded, "occasionally, perhaps. Don't forget you've done that as well."

"That's your fault. I don't naturally. But Hedwig isn't sneaky; she's the most beautiful pet in the world."

"How adorable," Victor mocked. "He loves his owl. She's the most beautiful pet in the world."

Harry reddened and swiped at his elbow, on which Victor had precariously rested his chin. He pulled away too quickly for Harry's attack to have any effect.

"Shut up," was what Harry had to settle for instead. He stood huffily and stalked towards the porch. "I'm leaving if all you're going to do is poke fun at me."

"Don't forget your gun," Victor called after him, nonplussed. "You might as well sulk efficiently."

Harry slammed the door behind him with grim satisfaction.

* * *

"Have you got everything?"

Harry patted down his backpack, more for psychological reasons than because he actually doubted he had (not that such a feeble pat-down would have revealed anything missing), and nodded.

"I think so."

Victor hesitated before rolling up his window. He looked even more apprehensive now that the time for parting had arrived, and his fingers were starting to make those nervous tapping movements against the steering wheel.

"I don't know if this is such a good idea," he began, after clearing his throat several times.

"Everything will be fine. Look, I'll even promise to call you every night if that will keep your motherly instincts at bay."

"To hell with motherly instincts," said Victor scornfully, but he looked rueful. "Maybe you had better, at that. And one last thing."

He tossed a thin gray cylinder at Harry, who caught it reflexively and studied it with interest. It was rather long in proportion to the rest of its dimensions, and was made of a fairly dense metal.

"What is it?"

"Silencer. Up in the hills it makes no difference how loud the report of a gun is, but in the city – or at school, for that matter – you don't want anyone to hear it. Keep it on, always. The government isn't too keen on firearm-carrying citizens."

Harry rubbed his fingers over the silencer. It was smooth in texture and had a dull sheen.

"All right, I will."

"Good." Victor didn't look like he knew very well what to say next. He cleared his throat again, a bit self-consciously. "Right. So long then, Harry. I hope you have a good term."

"So do I," Harry agreed heartily. "I seem to have been unlucky so far. Maybe this year will actually be quiet and normal." He paused and shifted the bag on his shoulders. "Thanks for everything. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't stepped up after that incident with Aunt Marge."

"That was quite nice of me, wasn't it? You're welcome."

Harry chuckled, but his mouth trembled and didn't seem to want to keep its ends up.

"Goodbye," he said simply, dropping the pretense. Victor nodded in response, but his face was already starting to glaze over with that focused, intense look he adopted during a hunt. Harry stepped back from the curb and stood with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets as the car joined the hordes of frantic traffic and disappeared. He exhaled lightly.

The hotel at which he was staying was mediocre. It was certainly not a beautiful piece of architecture, and Harry could hear suspicious sounds in the walls the first night. He left early the next morning for Diagon Alley, arriving with little trouble and a sigh of relief.

Although it was strange to be in the middle of wizarding folk after a practically solitary summer, he liked the comfortable bustle and the quaint magical shops... and of course it was nice to have a full pouch of galleons at his disposal. He made a mental note to sneak some money into Victor's wallet the next time he saw him, and then his heart sank. Who knew how long it would be until then?

Lockhart was not teaching DADA this year, he noted with relief, because the books were normal textbooks and actually looked like they had valuable material in them. Hopefully he would have a competent teacher this year. He wondered suddenly whether his spells were weak simply because he had never had occasion to improve them.

Before Harry had time to contemplate this idea further, a flash of bright orange hair caught his eye and he spun around, his eyes shining with surprise and excitement.

"Ginny!" he exclaimed, and stumbled over the hem of his new and slightly too large clothes. Over the summer, he'd subconsciously begun to copy the way Victor walked, with long strides and legs rather far apart. Unfortunately that didn't work with robes. He pulled them up impatiently and hurried back to the book shop, into which she had vanished.

A bell over the door jingled merrily as he pushed his way inside. He was often struck by the hilarity and contrariness of the wizarding world that, despite the convenience of magic, still clung to simple Muggle traditions. Of course, perhaps they were magical traditions that had carried to the Muggle world. Harry shook his head at the pointlessly complicated twists his mind liked to make, and he made his way to the back of the shop.

Ginny was standing, her back facing him, and he paused at the head of the aisle with a twinge of misgiving. Ron was hunched behind her, clearly not enjoying the outing. He had grown a great deal, his limbs even longer and ganglier than before, and Harry watched him with a warm, happy feeling swelling inside his stomach. He had missed his friend.

And then Ron turned.

For a moment, they stared at each other. Ron looked shell-shocked.

"H–Harry?" he stuttered, and choked on the last syllable. His face clouded over with fury. "Harry, _what the bloody hell_?"

Harry's eyes widened. He hadn't anticipated this reaction.

"Uh..." he attempted weakly. "Hullo?"

" _Hullo_?!" Ron hissed back, incredulously. His fists were rapidly clenching and unclenching. Harry took a step back.

"I'm sorry?" he suggested, uncertainly.

"You're _sorry_?!" Ron roared, waving his hands around wildly. "You... _you_!"

His feelings evidently had become too strong for him to speak. Harry gaped at him, almost frightened, and was caught completely unaware by the fist that smashed into his face. He stumbled back and landed with a hard thud on the ground.

"What on earth was that for?" he gasped (although he knew quite well what it was for), winded and grasping his nose tightly. It felt like it was bleeding. He blinked away pained tears.

" _That_ ," Ron told him angrily, "was for being a git."

"Did you have to punch me in the nose?"

It was definitely bleeding. Blood was starting to leak through the cracks between his fingers. For a brief moment, Ron looked almost apologetic, but then his face hardened. He had the grace, however, to reach out and pull Harry up.

"Do you have a handkerchief?" Harry asked meekly, still holding his nose. It smarted. He winced. Wordlessly, Ron tossed him a mostly dirty cloth.

A righteous wrath began to simmer deep in Harry's soul as he wiped his injured member. He was deeply wounded by the greeting he had received... more so because it was the second time he had been subjected to such treatment. Was this what it was like in the magical community? One left for the summer and was welcomed back by his friends with a punch in the face and an angered cry of "Git!"?

"You seem displeased," he observed, taking no pains to hide the disgruntlement in his voice.

"I though you were _dead_!"

Harry pursed his lips. Guilt was starting to creep over him again.

"I'm very sorry," he apologized, sincerely. "Most awfully sorry. I beg your pardon..."

"I'm not the one you've got to worry about," Ron interrupted, apparently appeased. His freckled face had smoothed to its usual friendliness again. "Mum'll be about as angry as a wet hen. Where the hell did you disappear to, anyway? We've been looking for you for weeks and weeks – Mum cut our vacation in Egypt short, and that was way at the beginning of summer – and then Sirius Black got out and now everything is a bloody mess."

"I'll explain it all," Harry promised, shifting his backpack over his shoulder. He could feel every pound that weighed it down and wished, neither for the first nor the last time, that he had managed to grab his trunk before leaving his aunt's house. While sturdy, the backpack did not have magical amenities... such as a lightening spell. "Where's Hermione?"

"I haven't seen her yet. Either she came early or she's coming sometime tomorrow or the day after. Knowing old Hermione, it's probably the first one."

"She told me she was reading all the new books over the summer."

"Well, then there you have it. And don't think I don't see what you're trying to do right now."

"What's that?"

"Stalling so you don't have to face Mum," Ron told him, a satisfied gleam in his eyes. "But that's what happens when you don't think before you act. You can explain to her. I'll listen." He grinned gleefully at the idea of someone else being the object of his mother's ire. "Come along! You, too, Ginny."

* * *

It was a good thing, Harry decided, that he had carried all of his belongings with him when he left the hotel that morning. After the Weasley onslaught (which took longer than he might have anticipated because of Mrs. Weasley's long-winded lecture and copious weeping, whether because of anger or relief he couldn't tell), Harry was dragged off to the Burrow, where he was interrogated by a pair of grim Ministry officials who asked him where he had been, what he had been doing, and who he had been with.

The first two were answered easily enough, but Harry stumbled on the third, giving some haphazard explanation about a friend named Jacob Brown who did something-or-other for a living and had offered to take him in after his burst of accidental magic. It was not very convincing. To his surprise, the officials completely ignored both the incident and the questionable friend.

Had he noticed anything that might have indicated the presence of Sirius Black?

"No," Harry snapped. His temper was frayed to the breaking point; they had asked him that same question thrice already. "I wouldn't know, anyway. I've never seen him before in my life. I don't even know what he looks like!"

Had he ever felt uncomfortable, as though someone was watching him?

"No, not at all."

Was he...

Harry stood, made his excuses, and fled from the room. He hid in the bathroom, his heart pounding, and waited for the sound of the front door closing.

"You can come out now."

Ron's voice was slightly muffled by the wooden panels. Suspiciously, Harry pulled the door knob back a few inches. He pressed his face against the crack.

"You're sure?"

Ron's freckled face bobbed once, up and down.

"Dead certain. I watched them apparate away. By the way, Hermione's coming right now."

Slamming the door shut, Harry undid the bolt and slipped out.

"Do you think she'll be angry, too?" he queried nervously, slouching gratefully behind Ron's tall figure as he led the way to the kitchen. "I did email her about the whole thing."

Ron frowned. "What's an email?"

"It's done on a computer to send messages to each other."

Harry straightened and wiggled his fingers in the air to demonstrate the capabilities of a keyboard. Ron looked confused.

"What's a computer?"

"It's a... a machine," Harry explained, painfully aware that he was giving an appalling description of the device. He halted in the middle of the hallway to clarify. "With stuff inside that does... stuff. And then you can send messages and write notes and listen to music."

Ron grimaced, rubbing his nose and smudging the dirt that never seemed to get washed off.

"It's a Muggle contraption, isn't it? Dad would probably like it."

"Why's that?"

"He likes to smuggle Muggle things here," said Ron offhandedly, "and take them apart to figure out how they work. You did know he has a flying car?"

Harry's eyebrows rose almost to his hairline.

"A _flying car_?"

"The Ministry's not supposed to know about it," Ron whispered, looking about himself furtively. A sudden ruckus downstairs brought them both to the foyer, where Hermione was greeting Mrs. Weasley and unwrapping her bulky outerwear. Her hair was frizzy, but not nearly as wild as it had been last year and the year before.

"Your hair's different," Harry blurted out from the doorway. He figured it was as good an opening greeting in this circumstance as any. Hermione whirled around, her robes swirling around her, and her eyes seemed to slam into Harry, who waited resignedly for the inevitable punch.

"Oh, Harry!"

Instead he was enveloped in a monstrous hug. Hermione seemed remarkably strong for her size. Harry patted her back gracelessly and tried to figure out what to do with his hands afterwards (hugs were horribly awkward). Pulling back, she beamed at him.

"I'm so happy you're all right!"

"I'm glad _someone_ is," Harry returned, shooting a pointed glare at Ron, who shrugged. "Thank you for not..." her fist slammed into his chin and he stumbled back for the second time that day. "... punching me," he finished reproachfully, prodding his chin with tenderness. Mrs. Weasley clucked her tongue reprovingly at Hermione, but her mouth twitched as she vanished into the kitchen, murmuring about a casserole. "Did you have to? My nose is already swollen because of Ron."

"You deserved it."

"I expect I did." Harry smiled bravely at them both and winced when his jaw protested with vehemence. "Well, now that all wrongs have been righted, do you want to discuss anything? I wasn't trying to make you worry on purpose."

"You'd better not have been," Hermione threatened, but she nodded graciously.

"Food first!" Ron exclaimed, and dashed into the kitchen, his patience completely worn out. Harry started to follow him, but Hermione grabbed his sleeve. He turned back questioningly.

"Harry, I..." she began, and then squinted at his clothes. He smoothed down his sweater self-consciously. "That's a lot of green."

"Does it look okay?" Harry asked, eyeing her expression with some worry. "It's the first year I ever went shopping for my clothes without help. The lady at the counter said..."

"Oh, no. No, it's fine," Hermione assured him. She grinned suddenly. "It matches your eyes. Anyway, I just wondered if you were really okay. You're sure nothing bad happened over break? You have this... this _look_."

Harry's mind unwittingly flashed back to the hunter's journal in his backpack, which now had new entries about werewolves, demons, shapeshifters, skinwalkers, and the various other creatures he had encountered. The revolver shoved in his pants felt cold against his back, but he smiled back serenely.

"No, everything was great, Hermione. I promise."

* * *

Mrs. Weasley insisted on keeping Harry at the Burrow until it was time for them to leave for Hogwarts. In spite of his show of independence for Victor's sake, Harry was glad that she made him stay. Hermione briefly returned to her own home to pack her trunk, and when she rejoined them, she brought with her a startling new addition. Or rather two.

The first was a cat, Crookshanks. It was the ugliest, mangiest, most mottled animal Harry had ever seen, and although he had the delicacy to keep his opinions to himself, one couldn't have said the same for Ron, who inadvertently insulted Crookshanks the moment he set eyes on him. He jumped a mile when Hermione walked in, holding a scruffy orange ball of fur.

"What _is_ that?" he yelped. "And what the bloody hell are you doing bringing it into the house?"

"Ronald Weasley!" his mother scolded him, putting down her knitting with a stern expression. "Language! I raised you better than that. Good morning, Hermione dear. What a beautiful cat."

"B–beautiful?!" Ron echoed incredulously. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him and set the creature haughtily down on the floor without a word. "That _thing_? That horrible, hairy thing? I've seen hamsters that are better looking."

"He hates hamsters," Fred whispered helpfully to Harry.

"Ever since we hid one in his drawer when he was six," George agreed, throwing a crooked arm over Fred's shoulder. "He's terrified of them."

Curled up in the armchair beside them, Ginny stifled a giggle. "Was that why he wouldn't touch the dresser for weeks and made me get his underwear out for him? I've always wondered about that."

Hermione was very indignant.

"He looks nicer than your rat," she retorted scathingly.

"You have a rat?"

Ron shot Harry a wounded look.

"I've had Scabbers since first year. Are you telling me you never noticed?"

"I don't live in the same dormitory."

"Still, I carry him around..."

Hermione brushed past Ron's shoulder with pursed lips, a dangerous look in her eye, and Crookshanks in tow. Ron watched the cat waddle after her distrustfully.

"That thing," he declared, obviously determined not to recognize its name, "is planning something. I can see that much in its eyes. It's probably plotting to kill poor Scabbers."

Hermione returned a moment later, looking rather ashamed, and stepped to the door.

"I'm awfully sorry," she said stiffly, not even glancing at Ron. "I forgot something."

She dragged the second surprise in through the front door. It was her eleven year old cousin, Jeremy, who she explained had just received his Hogwarts letter and was going to come with them on the Express. Jeremy was a quiet boy, contrary to what Hermione had written Harry in her letter during first year, with neat brown hair, round hazel eyes and an impishly infectious smile.

"Pleased to meet you," he said shyly, and ducked behind Hermione. He liked Harry and the Weasleys – that much was clear – and was fascinated by Mrs. Weasley's casual use of magic in the kitchen, but he talked little, content to watch the cutlery move on its own and set the table as the others conversed. Ron and Hermione sat on opposite ends of the room, one holding a rat and the other stroking a cat, and both with stubborn expressions. Harry sighed and hung near Ginny and the twins.

They were still not speaking when it was time to leave for Hogwarts. It seemed impossible in the general bedlam of trunks and suitcases and people rushing about for them to have avoided saying a word to each other, but somehow they managed it.

Mrs. Weasley saw the group off.

"See you at Christmas, Ron. Wipe the dirt of your nose, won't you? Harry, don't go around fighting with that Malfoy boy... yes, I did hear about that. Fred, George, stop teasing your sister! Hermione, don't let Crookshanks get away; he might get trodden on... Ron! Don't say things like that! Good luck on your first year, Jeremy. Goodbye, Ginny dear. Oh, hello, Luna."

The blonde girl wandered towards them, twin radish earrings swinging from her ears, and watched the proceedings with a cocked head. Ron lifted his head, his face red with exertion.

"Hi, Luna," he greeted her. "How are things?"

"Very good, Ronald," Luna replied, with a solemn nod. "Thank you for asking. Good afternoon, Mrs. Weasley. Harry..." She paused and waited for him to look up before giving him a quick smile. "The safety's off. I thought you were supposed to be careful about that."

She skipped to Ginny, humming a cheery tune, while Harry stared after her with an open mouth. How in heaven's name had she guessed... he shook his head. One never knew with Luna. He reached behind, however, to feel his gun. The safety _was_ off. He flicked it on guiltily.

They boarded the train and found an empty compartment without trouble, although Ron and Hermione only agreed to ride together for Harry's sake, and the benches barely had room for eight people (the twins insisted on crowding in as well).

It wasn't until about an hour had passed that things began to happen.

The train clattered against the tracks with soothing rhythm, so Harry didn't notice at first, but slowly he began to realize that the car was buzzing. No, the walls were buzzing... vibrating unnaturally. He frowned and craned his head out the window, and his stomach dropped.

Starting from the tail end of the train, black smoke was creeping along beside the whizzing wheels, crawling up the sides of the cars towards the half open windows. It was already slipping inside the car behind them. _No, no, no!_ This couldn't be happening. Not again.

He ducked back inside in an agony of fear, his stomach twisting and turning nauseatingly. Ron and the twins were dozing beside Luna (whose eyes were closed, but that didn't mean anything when Luna was involved). Hermione was reading, her hand absently stroking Crookshanks' deep fur, and her cousin was fast asleep. Ginny was deeply involved in a solitaire game of Exploding Snap.

Scabbers blinked at him and crawled back into Ron's pocket. Harry plopped down on his seat, his heart feeling like it might explode out of his chest, and he did the only thing he could think of.

 _"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, ergo draco maledicte, ut ecclesiam tuam secura, tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos... exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis congregatio..."_

Hermione looked up with a puzzled frown.

"What did you say?"

He shot her a tremulous grin.

"Nothing."

Luckily for him– really for both of them, because his silence put them all in danger – she returned to her book without further investigation. Harry glanced out into the passage; smoke was pressing against the glass near the base of their compartment's door, curling in wisps through the crack. His breaths quickened almost to the point of hyperventilation.

 _"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, ergo draco maledicte, ut ecclesiam tuam secura..."_

* * *

 **Cliffhanger! Haha, I like those. I'll get the next chapter up as soon as I can though, so you won't have to wonder for too long. The ball is really going to start rolling this year... I'm ridiculously excited.** **And guess what?! I have officially surpassed Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's/Philosopher's Stone in length!**

 **Reviews – especially constructive criticism – are always very much appreciated! Thank you!**


	17. Chapter 17

**Oh, nooooo! Chapter 16 was officially the least popular chapter since Chapter 8! You guys still love me, right? However, I would like to thank all of you who followed and favorited this story since last chapter.**

 **Also, thank you to my faithful reviewers OtakuDrag0n, VanriddleZ, Guest (Actually I don't know if you're faithful... if you sign in I will, though!), luv-blonde-bunny, Umbra.V (Er... no words), and molwevans. Hugs and kisses to you all, and better than that, you each get yankeebornandbred brownie points. You know, I think I'll start a system of those. Whoever gets a certain number will get to give a prompt for a one-shot, and whoever gets a greater certain number will get sneak previews of chapters, etc. Heh, I'm probably too lazy to set that in motion, though. Scratch that, I am _definitely_ too lazy.**

 **MERRY CHRISTMAS TO EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU! I hope y'all had a beautiful, wonderful, blessed week filled with family and food. Food, of course, being most important.**

 **May this chapter be more successful than its predecessor!**

 **Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me except for parts of the story line and my little twists. Things you recognize are probably from the books or TV show.**

* * *

BOOK ONE

Chapter XVII

* * *

" _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, ergo draco maledicte, ut ecclesiam tuam secura..._ "

The smoke recoiled. Some of it was thinning, and the rest seemed to flee before his eyes. Harry continued to mutter feverishly under his breath until his heart had slowed and the passage was completely empty. He glanced around himself, half surprised to discover that nothing had changed. His chest clenched and he stood.

"I need some air," he murmured to Hermione, who mumbled something unintelligible in response. As he stepped out of the compartment, Harry appraised the corridor sharply. It was clear and quiet. He trod softly, tentatively moving his feet forward for fear that something would hear him (could demons hear if they were incorporeal?). Even though he and his friends had emerged from the brief encounter unscathed, he doubted the rest of the train could have.

He paused at the end of the car, in front of the very last compartment. It was unoccupied but for one ragged wizard, whose hood hid his face. Harry stared at him for a moment, fingers pressed lightly against the wooden doorframe, and wondered why he felt so familiar.

As he engaged in this one-sided staring contest, the stooped figure lifted its head. Harry dropped his hand, mortified at having been caught, and prepared to retreat.

"I'm sorry. I..."

"Don't worry about it." The voice was gentle. The man to whom it belonged seemed young, even with the gray liberally sprinkled throughout his thick brown hair, but his youth was tempered by a heaviness that Harry could not fathom. He smiled, the expression lighting up his otherwise tired face. "Your name is Harry Potter, I presume?"

"Yes." Harry watched him warily. "How did you know?"

"You look very much like James," the man replied simply. He made a quick motion with his hand. "Allow me to introduce myself. Remus Lupin. Your father and I were classmates. You're welcome to come in if you'd like."

Harry seated himself – Lupin looked far from dangerous, and after all, what could anyone do to him on a moving train? – and clasped his hands. They were still trembling lightly from the adrenaline rush of his transcendental battle.

"My father?" he repeated curiously, tugging at his wrist-length sleeve. He had decided to wear one of his older robes on the train, and he was regretting it now. "Did you know him well?"

"James?" Something like reminiscence flashed through the gray eyes, along with a trace of sorrow. "I suppose I knew him well enough."

"What was he like?" Harry asked, stumbling over his words in his eagerness. He remembered abruptly that he had to do the test, and added in an undertone, " _Christo._ "

Remus Lupin did not so much as twitch. "He was... a very fine man." But the hesitation was there. Harry could see it. He examined Lupin's face more closely and the man released a long breath. "In his younger years, he _did_ have a tendency to be egotistical, one might say..."

His words were swallowed by rumbling and screeching as the train jerked to a full stop. Thrown forward in the backlash, Harry righted himself and pushed his hair out of his eyes to stare at Lupin. The muscles on the man's face were taut and concentrated, and his back was ramrod straight as though he was preparing himself for something.

"It's _them_." The last word was hissed with such loathing that Harry flinched. Lupin was already in motion, his robe billowing as he surged to his feet, wand in hand. And Harry started to feel the presence that was _them_.

There was a coldness niggling in the back of his mind, pressing uncomfortably around him. Then it began to expand, bursting over the rest of him and paralyzing him where he sat. _My God_ , was his last conscious thought before darkness began to creep up the edges of his vision, _I'm being possessed_. It was all black, everything around him, and he whimpered in terror and recoiled, but there was nowhere to go. Early memories half-forgotten rose to the forefront of his mind. A flash of green. _I'm sorry_. Pain. Terror. Incoherent thoughts.

" _Expecto Patronum_!"

A brilliant flash of white light exploded around him and he came to with a sharp gasp. His head was pounding and throbbing. For a moment he couldn't see anything, and then he realized that it was because of Lupin's robes. The man was protectively blocking him from view of those... _things_. Harry scrambled to sit up. The feeling was gone. _They_ were gone.

"Wh-what happened?"

"Dementors," Lupin said curtly, yanking him to his feet. "Did you come with anyone? Where are they? We have to go now. Damn those creatures and _damn_ whoever let them onto this train. Near to innocent people. _Children._ "

He sounded furious.

"Um..." Harry struggled to remember where Ron and Hermione were but his head was spinning and he lurched forward. "I think I'm going to throw up," he said faintly, trying to look away from the purple blotch that danced over Lupin's nose. There was another purple blotch swirling around the man's stark white knuckles, and another covering the smoothly finished wand he held. They grew, and grew, and grew...

Lupin's hand was scrubbing his back roughly and the nausea that twisted his stomach started to recede. Harry gasped again for breath, gripping Lupin's forearm.

"I'm okay." But he held on tightly. He wasn't sure if his legs would hold. _Flash of green... flash of green._ His eyes were watering badly. "Ron. Hermione. They're a few compartments down, I think."

"Then let's go there." Lupin pushed a chocolate bar into his hands and Harry stared at it in confusion. "Eat that. It helps after Dementor attacks. I have more if you need it."

Harry wouldn't have been one to turn down chocolate in any circumstances, and if it helped after Demen-whatever-they-were-called attacks, so much the better. He shoved the piece into his mouth, chewed mechanically, and swallowed. The chocolate sent a sort of warm, tingling feeling through him and helped drive out the bits of coldness he hadn't even known had remained.

"Thanks."

Seemingly satisfied with his renewed vitality, Lupin nodded once and motioned him into the passage.

"How come you're okay?" Harry asked, with a brief spark of envy. "Does it only effect certain people?" _Like me_ , he refrained from adding.

"No," Lupin replied curtly, and his tone expressed all that he didn't say. "As an adult, I'm more resilient. It also seemed to target you more directly once it noticed your reaction."

"Was that... my reaction... not normal?"

"It was somewhat extreme."

Ginny was white and terrified when they reached his compartment. Hermione, looking no less shaken, was rubbing her shoulder gently. Ron's eyes were round and shocked. In fact, the only person who seemed unaffected was Luna, and her lips were set grimly in a thin line.

"What happened?" Hermione cried, jumping to her feet as they walked in. Her frightened eyes landed on Lupin. "Who are _you_?"

"Eat this."

He appeared to have an unending supply of chocolate. By the time everyone had finished their piece and calmed slightly, he had disappeared.

"Who was that?" Hermione whispered in Harry's ear. She swallowed. "He was right, though. I do feel better now."

"He said his name was Remus Lupin," Harry told her. "He's too old to be a student... far too old, so I'd guess he's our new Defense professor. Unless we struck gold this year and he's taking over Potions."

That drew a laugh and a halfhearted scolding out of her about how Snape was a good teacher, how Harry shouldn't criticize his elders, and how he had better, if anything, at least pay more attention to potions class from now on because it was very, _very_ important.

"Hermione," Harry broke in impatiently but jokingly, "we just almost died. Can't we bask in that for a little while without worrying about homework?"

Hermione's face, tentatively stern, crumpled.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, and rubbed the heel of her hand across her eyes quickly. "I'm sorry... I just... it was so... so _horrible._ " Her face contorted and she bent over hurriedly, hiding it against her knees.

Alarmed, Harry touched her back.

"We're all right," he hastened to reassure her. "Everyone. Don't cry, Hermione, _please_ don't cry."

"I'm not crying!" Hermione gasped indignantly, but she didn't look up and her voice caught.

"Whatever you saw," Ron interrupted loudly from the other side of the compartment, giving no indication that he had noticed Hermione's panic attack, "couldn't have matched up with mine. That's impossible." He widened his eyes comically. "It was a huge _spider_." He nodded vigorously at the first tremulous, then more genuine giggles. "I'm telling you, it was huge, and hairy, and it was crawling at me, closer and closer and closer, and..." he choked in his haste, "it tried _to kiss me_."

In the eruption of laughter that followed, Harry remained silent and watched Ron, who once everyone's attention fled back to reading, games, and conversation looked very sober indeed. Whatever he had seen, it hadn't been a spider. Harry wondered, with a burst of gratitude towards his friend, at how well Ron could surprise him sometimes with his thoughtfulness.

* * *

Jeremy was sorted in Ravenclaw, which evened the balance of their small group with two each in every house but Hufflepuff. Luna took for granted that she should show him around, and left on that errand immediately after the opening feast.

"I used to hate being in Slytherin," Ginny confided to Harry over a slab of crisp, broiled pork, "but I love it now. Once one gets to know more people, it's nice."

Harry, who was aware that it had been a shapeshifter and not Ginny who was sorted into Slytherin, choked on his beans and had to be patted on the back from one side by Margaret and handed a glass of water on the other by Ginny.

"Friends do help," he agreed wisely, once his coughing had died down from a violent seizure to a few polite hacks. Margaret laughed.

"You two are so sickeningly Gryffindor that I wonder how you ended up here." At their blanks looks, she waved an expressive arm. "Look at you! You're sharing your feelings and talking about the value of friendship... you little darlings."

"Oh, shut up," Harry retorted mildly. "Pureblood swine."

"Muggle-raised louse," was Margaret's prompt rejoinder. Age and two years' association with the Boy Who Lived had tempered her aversion to half bloods and muggleborns enough that she didn't glare daggers at his blatant slurs against her pureblood aristocracy, but she still occasionally used the Dursleys as ammunition. Harry didn't know if she was aware that he hated them as much as she did (although he had reason and she simply felt that way by default).

"Black haired bitch," he countered. He wasn't sure exactly how insulting the last word was meant to be, but he had heard Vernon use it to describe one of their neighbors before, and his tone had suggested many less than complimentary things. Ginny made a startled noise.

"Harry!"

Margaret's eyes flashed angrily. Harry backpedaled. Apparently it was _very_ insulting.

"I didn't mean that," he said hastily, adding under his breath, "not that I even know what it's supposed to mean."

The fire died down in Margaret's eyes and she looked about ready to burst into laughter again.

"You don't know what that means?" she inquired.

"No-o?" Uncertain as to what the right answer was, Harry tried to stall for time. "I mean, I guess it means a female dog. I never really thought about it. Are you angry because I called you a lady dog?"

"No... well, yes. Sort of." Margaret rolled her eyes heavenward in defeat. "Don't call anyone that unless you want to get hexed until kingdom come."

"Noted."

"Besides, I don't even have black hair."

He was afraid that she hadn't let the incident go when she called for him to stop on their way back to the dorms. When he joined her at the tail end of the Slytherin bunch, however, her grave expression said otherwise. This was not a continuation of that jocularly insulting exchange.

"Harry," she began, and he stiffened. She rarely if ever called him by his given name; it was always "Potter," or "Half blood," or if she wanted to be condescending, "Child." Never Harry.

"What is it?" he asked warily. He doubted he would like what was coming.

"I'm leaving," Margaret told him, point-blank. Her heels were dug very firmly into the ground and her fists were shoved into her pockets, and she looked bleak. "I'm not even going to the dorms with you. My father will be here in five minutes, and then we'll be heading to France."

Harry stared, his mind short-circuiting.

"What did you say?"

"My family is moving to France," Margaret snapped, her highly strung nerves evidently breaking. "I'm not studying at Hogwarts anymore. I've been transferred to a French school called Beauxbatons and I. Am. Not. Coming. Back. So this is me saying goodbye to you."

"Goodbye?!" Harry echoed, pulling back to stare at her in disbelief. "This can't be goodbye! Margaret, you're not really going? You're pulling my leg."

"Have I ever?"

Harry frowned. "Yes, often."

"Mm. I suppose I have." She looked wistful for a moment. He realized for the first time that night that she wasn't wearing the Hogwarts uniform – just a simple black robe with dull gray piping. The implications made his heart sink. "We've had some good times, haven't we? But there's no need to cry over spilled milk. I'm going, and that's that."

She wasn't joking. Harry's body felt weirdly drained of all energy.

"I guess this _is_ goodbye, then," he said finally, in a somber voice that didn't sound quite like his own. "I hope you have a good trip."

She took the hand that he offered her with a questioning and slightly hesitant air.

"Thanks." Suddenly she made an annoyed, strangled sound and pulled him swiftly into a tight hug. "You know," she said, the words muffled by his hair (she was irritatingly still taller than him, even after his summer's growth spurt), "you're basically the little brother I never wanted. I hope you get along all right without me."

She let go and stepped back before he could react.

"So long."

"Ciao," said Harry, with false bravado. "See you sometime."

A smile touched her lips.

"Sometime," she agreed, and whirled on her heel. He watched her leave with a strange lack of any emotion. She disappeared at the turn of the passage. He stared at the empty air until he was sure that she wasn't coming back, and then he turned and followed the others.

* * *

Harry slammed the door of his dorm room and turned the lock shakily before sinking to the ground and burying his face in his hands.

At the moment he set eyes on the black smoke in the Express, he had known that there would be demon trouble. It was a little different, however, to have visible confirmation. As a preliminary test, he had snuck into the kitchen and emptied one bottle of holy water into the breakfast drinks while the elves' backs were turned (it took a tricky bit of maneuvering with the invisibility cloak).

"What took so long?" Ginny had asked when he finally made his way to the table and slipped onto the bench among the general hubbub. The seat beside him felt glaringly empty in Margaret's absence.

"Nothing," he had whispered back. "Just stopped by the loo. _Christo_ , there's no need to worry about me so much."

She nodded, unaffected by the word, and dug into her porridge. Harry snuck a glance around himself. The drinks were coming out now, but he faked disinterest and served himself some ham. A piercing scream broke through the low chatter as a girl at the Ravenclaw tabled rolled off her seat, writhing in pain on the ground with her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

"It's my stomach," he heard her moan to the concerned teachers who flocked around her. "I don't know what's wrong. It burns, it burns!"

He forced himself to stare and keep his head up as her eyes traveled in his direction. Evasion would practically be a declaration of guilt. Muttering something about food poisoning, McGonagall took her arm and led her out of the hall, passing within four feet of Harry, whose scalp prickled uncomfortably.

Breakfast ended with a total of seventeen cases of food poisoning, and Harry headed to his classes with his head spinning. Seventeen. One demon had already been trouble enough, but _seventeen!_ How could he exorcise them all with no backup, few supplies, and a school full of non-hunters?

He was too flustered to pay attention to any of the lectures. Snape gave him a week's worth of detentions, Flitwick assigned two extra feet for his essay, and McGonagall lectured him tartly about the evils of laziness and inattentiveness, and he headed to DADA with palpable heaviness of spirit. He was the first to enter the classroom.

"It's good to see you, Harry," said a quiet voice, and he jerked his head up in surprise. Remus Lupin shot him a quick smile. "How have you been after the attacks?"

"Good," said Harry, still startled. "Uh... good. I haven't had any more nightmares."

Lupin walked out from behind his desk. His robes were worn and old, and sprinkled with a number of patches that Harry hadn't noticed before between the demons and the Dementor attack. He tapped his wand lightly against his palm. Harry was again struck by the pallor of his scarred hands.

"I'm glad. I was afraid you might be aversely affected. You saw many horrible things before you could even speak, and Dementors tend to bring up disturbing memories."

"Oh, it did," Harry replied wryly. The short burst of images haunted him sometimes when he was alone. "But I can handle it. I'm doing fine... so long as I don't ever meet one of those things again."

He shuddered involuntarily and Lupin chuckled without humor.

"I had hoped you wouldn't, but I'm afraid the Ministry is sending quite a few our way."

Harry felt the blood rush out of his cheeks, and he sat down with a hard thump. This day kept getting worse and worse.

"They're bringing them to Hogwarts?! What on earth for?"

Lupin leaned against the desk across from him and rocked gently back and forth.

"You heard about Sirius Black?" he asked, and at Harry's nod, he continued, "There's reason to believe that he's targeting you, and since the Dementors guard the prison of Azkaban, it is their job to capture him and bring him back. The headmaster tried to ban them from the grounds, but unfortunately the Ministry has a great deal of influence and the families of Hogwarts' students believe it would be for the best... for their _protection_ that Dementors be posted here. Dumbledore did manage to restrict them to the outer boundaries, however."

The rest of the third year class swept into the room. Lupin rose, pocketing his wand.

"We can finish this conversation later," he said, and strode to his desk before Harry could answer. Hermione slid into the seat beside him, panting, with her hair rumpled and her robe askew.

"Came from the infirmary," she explained under her breath. "By the way, how are you feeling, Harry?"

Harry started. He didn't think he was that easy to read. "Are you psychic?"

"Um... no." Hermione looked puzzled. "I'm a witch. Also, coincidentally, your friend, so I know what your this-is-a-very-bad-day face looks like. I'm only asking because of all those infirmary cases this morning. Jeremy had a particularly bad time of it and I wondered if that was what's making you so glum."

"What?!" Harry all but shouted, and was silenced by a host of glares from the class. "Jeremy got sick this morning?" he continued in a whisper. He couldn't have heard that properly. If he had...

"Yes, I felt so bad. He was practically writhing on the floor in pain."

"Oh, dammit!"

"Harry! Language!"

It was only at the end of the day, as the supposedly sick children were released from the infirmary, that Harry really began to worry. A perfectly well Theodore Nott sauntered into the common room behind Daphne Greengrass and smiled at him.

"Food poisoning is a bitch, isn't it?" he commented pleasantly, sliding onto the quilted couch with inhuman grace. _Don't call anyone that unless you want to get hexed until kingdom come_ , thought Harry mournfully. "I do hope those elves don't mess up the food anymore. I hate when they act so carelessly."

"You're feeling better now, though, aren't you?" said Harry, after swallowing several times to clear his suddenly tight throat. Theodore's eyes darkened.

"No thanks to you, but yes."

Harry sucked in his cheeks and felt sincerely sorry for carrying out his little test. Come to think of it, he probably would have been happier not knowing. The hand he kept burrowed in his pocket picked nervously at the tip of his wand.

"Oi, Nott! I think I'll head to bed now!" Blaise Zabini bellowed from across the room. He and Theodore shared Harry's room of last year (he was glad he had been switched). "I'm feeling a bit sluggish. Must be something Pomfrey put in the potion."

Theodore waved in response and gripped Harry's shoulder. Harry wriggled a little but his hold was firm. "I'll be seeing you, Potter. Stay out of trouble."

"Oh, I will," Harry croaked after his departing figure. "I most certainly will," he repeated to nobody. His forehead felt wet. Bed wasn't such a bad idea. No, bed sounded very good.

* * *

This was absolutely, positively unfair. He had taken the pills exactly thirty minutes ago – even filmed himself doing so to provide evidence for his muddled mind – and the guy was still there. Mom waited patiently in the corner of his eye for him to turn so that she could get herself stabbed. Adam gained a sort of strange satisfaction from the knowledge that she would never get him to do that ever again.

"Adam, I'm simply asking you to agree."

Adam stoically remained silent. The dark-haired man watched him soberly, hands held motionless at the sides of his drab gray jacket. He was different from Alley Man – _not different_ , his insane brain insisted – _very_ different, Adam replied emphatically to his brain – _not different_ – different – _not different_ – shut up! What doesn't look like a duck, doesn't swim like a duck, and doesn't quack like a duck (and, boy, did the guy not quack) is not a duck. Simple. _Not different,_ his mind argued _._

Sighing, Adam rubbed his temples. It was one thing to know you were crazy and take your doctor-prescribed pills faithfully to maintain a semblance of a normal life, and an entirely different thing to take said pills faithfully and still not have a normal life because they refused to work.

"You have everything to gain from this and nothing to lose."

Well, thank you for your jolly input, creepy subconscious man. Shuffling to the sink, he filled a pot with water and set it on the stove to boil. Insane or not, he had to eat. He could feel eyes boring into the back of his head. _Imaginary eyes_ , he reminded himself chidingly. _Don't be an idiot._

"I don't understand your hesitation."

Something inside him suddenly snapped.

"You know what?" he snarled, spinning on his heel and shoving a finger into the man's face. "You're a nonexistent person in my head, and you don't understand any damn thing! _Damn_ you, Michael!"

He choked on the last word. _Michael?_ _Michael_. Shivering, Adam backed a step away.

"You're not Michael," said a voice that sounded like his own – _not different, not different –_ but he knew his lips weren't moving anymore. _Memory_ , his brain supplied for him, _this is a memory_. For the first time, he wished the amnesia could be more permanent.

The man looked confused for a moment.

"I don't understand what you're talking about."

"You are _not_ Michael."

The man stared at him in silence. Dark brown began to bleed into blond, the young face morphing into one more lined and less friendly, the skin cracking to form open sores. Alley Man spread his arms with a grin.

"How on earth did you guess?" he inquired gaily. "I almost fooled myself that time! Ah, well, the joke's over. I never was much of a Trickster." He laughed aloud, but the sound was brittle. Adam flinched automatically.

"Stop." The new voice was quiet and weary, but it did not falter. Alley Man clicked his tongue.

"Now, now, Sam." _Sam._ Adam's mind eagerly latched onto the familiar word. _Sam._ "Sam, I thought I told you to stay in timeout." His tone was gently rebuking, even mildly amused.

"Leave him alone," the one called Sam gritted out, in a voice filled with pain and grim persistence. "Leave him out of this, Lucifer. He didn't choose any of it. It isn't his fault."

Finally Adam forced himself to turn his head. Fear was so heavy in the air that it stifled him, and his breaths came in short gasps. Broken, bleeding, hunched over in agony, Sam managed to lift the corners of his mouth the barest amount. It was a grotesque spectacle, with his teeth caked with half-dried blood and his lips cracked in dozens of places, but somehow it helped. _I'm here now. You're not alone. I'm here._

"Tough luck for him," Lucifer replied sourly.

Sam swayed on his feet and for a moment Adam was afraid his huge frame would come crashing to the ground, but somehow Sam took ahold of himself and lifted his head again. His eyes blazed with determination.

"Fine," he hissed between his teeth. "How about me, then? I'm more fun, aren't I?"

Lucifer stared at him impassively, and then a slow smile crept over his face. He shook his head almost affectionately. "Oh, Sam, you are. Of course you are."

White light. A shining blade. Blood. And Sam screamed.

* * *

 **Dammit, poor Sammy. I feel sort of bad.**

 **Reviews – especially constructive criticism – are always very much appreciated! Thank you!**


	18. Chapter 18

**Sorry for the wait. I've been awfully busy with the return of school and all. Thank you to OtakuDrag0n, Sianna Scale, molwevans, MidnightGlows, manapohaku2, Established Insanity, Sailor Pandabear, don't blink or you're dead (I'm sorry, the site has some glitch that doesn't let me type out your username** **properly), and luv-blonde-bunny for your reviews!**

 **Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me except for parts of the story line and my little twists. Things you recognize are probably from the books or TV show.**

* * *

BOOK ONE

Chapter XVIII

* * *

"I know this sounds crazy," Harry blurted out as fast as he could, "but demons exist. They're horrible creatures that look like black smoke and can possess people, and there are at least seventeen of them in Hogwarts. If you don't help me, I..."

"I'll help."

"... have no idea what I'll do. There's no one else. Please, _please_..." he paused. "Wait, what?"

Luna blinked slowly at him, her halo of pale golden hair framing her face.

"You asked me for help, and I said yes," she stated, smoothing her skirt over her knees and giving the blue trimmed wool a lingering pat.

"But... but..." Harry faltered, flabbergasted. "Why do you believe me? I thought I'd have to... I don't know... give proof or something. I just told you that demons exist."

She gazed at him with a strange expression.

"You're my friend, Harry. Why would you lie to me?"

"Oh." Although her willingness to believe in the incredible was the exact reason why he had chosen her over Ron and Hermione to spill the secret to, it sometimes still amazed him. It also prompted him to think of all the times he _had_ lied to his friends... too many to remember. "Well... thank you."

He hadn't been so stupid as to believe he could take on an infestation of demons on his own, but he didn't like the idea of bringing the problem to a professor. Adults could be troublesome. Besides, Luna had handled herself well when confronted with the shapeshifter, even if she didn't remember it now, and he had confidence in her capability. As much confidence as he had in his own, anyway.

"Harry," said Luna, and she sounded almost as though she was choosing her words with care, "maybe we shouldn't try to take them all down. If they don't attack, why should we start anything?"

"They're _demons_ , Luna. They're practically the personification of evil."

"You said they possess humans, so the humans will die as well. We can't let that happen. And since when," Luna asked sharply, "did your mind jump immediately to killing things?"

Harry's brain shorted out to fuzzy gray static for several startled seconds.

"It doesn't." But to his alarm he realized that it did. His automatic reaction in this sort of situation was now to figure out what it was, where it was, and how to kill it. "And I didn't say we should kill them. It's impossible as far as I know. Exorcising is our best option."

The tension in Luna's shoulders slowly slid free, although they still held a lingering wariness.

"Exorcism," she echoed thoughtfully, and began to recite, " _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, ergo draco maledicte, ut ecclesiam tuam secura, tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos._ "

"How on earth do you know that?"

With a queer smile, she tapped the side of her head. "Eidetic memory," she explained. "You wrote it once on your notebook and left it open in the library. Don't worry, I closed it for you."

"That's... very impressive."

"I know." This was stated without any trace of conceit or self-satisfaction. It was merely a fact. "So do we walk right up and start exorcising or do you have a plan?"

"No, no," Harry exclaimed, "we can't do that! Can you imagine the chaos that'll follow? Students screaming and running away, professors trying to herd us out before we've finished, inquisitions by the Ministry, cross-examining? I've got a plan." He paused to formulate one. "There's this symbol, see? It's called a devil's trap and I think we can use it to catch them, preferably at night. Then we can exorcise them all in one shot and be done with it by morning."

She traced her finger lightly over the encircled pentagram he had drawn for her.

"Does the trap really work? Have you tried it yet?"

"Um..."

"How will we gather all the demons?" she continued sensibly. "I'm sure they're not stupid; they won't come marching into the trap one by one."

Harry rubbed his cheek and wondered why everything sounded more complicated when someone else was repeating it back to him. "We could test it out first. I'll think of something."

* * *

"Class is dismissed."

Harry dragged his books into his bag and stood.

"Mr. Potter," said Lupin, before he could take a step towards the door. "Could you stay for a few minutes longer? I'd like to talk with you."

Hermione's head jerked up from more than halfway across the room and she gave Harry a suspicious, what-have-you-done-now look. He shot her an I-haven't-done-anything-don't-you-trust-me look, which clearly did nothing for her peace of mind. She frowned, and he frowned back.

"Miss Granger," there was humor in the professor's crinkled brown eyes, "kindly don't dawdle. You're producing a bit of a congestion."

When they were alone, Lupin flipped through the last few papers and tossed them into his desk drawer. "Harry, I've been thinking about this situation with the Dementors, and I think you should learn to protect yourself from them."

With the immediate danger of a lecture gone, Harry relaxed and sank back into his seat.

"Is there a way?" he asked. The strange fleeting images were only just beginning to lose their vividness and he had worried about how he might be affected if Dementors lurked near Hogwarts all year. It seemed Professor Lupin shared his concern.

"Yes. I'll have to teach you to cast the Patronus charm. I asked the headmaster for permission as it's usually taught to higher level students, and he agreed that you should defend yourself to prevent further unpleasant encounters."

"I don't know," Harry mumbled, staring at his fingers and trying to hide the pang of misgiving that came with the word "cast." Hadn't Lupin seen all his bumbling and failed attempts at spells and charms? "I doubt I'll learn it before I'm a legal adult, let alone in time to fend away Dementors."

"You must," Lupin replied sternly. "Do you think you would be able to handle repeated episodes of that sort? To see the same memories, over and over again? Those creatures draw out every shred of happiness you've ever had and leave you with the most awful parts of your life. They close in specifically on the vulnerable. Do you think they'll attack the students with perfect families and happy childhoods, and do you think they would prefer you?"

Harry, whose eyes had been growing ever larger during this heated speech, jumped as he realized Lupin was waiting for him to answer.

"Yes!" he exclaimed. "I mean, no. I mean, yes, they'd probably go for me. But how come I'm always the chosen one? I'd rather be the youngest wizard in the most inconspicuous house – an eleven-year-old in Hufflepuff named John Smith would be ideal."

"As your name is Harry Potter and you are _not_ a Hufflepuff first year," Lupin interjected dryly, "you need to come here twice a week, after classes are over, for me to work with you personally. Even a weak version of the Patronus is better than nothing."

"You don't understand. I can't _magic_. So far I've only turned a splinter from brown to silver, and I'm talking about the color, not the substance. I can try, though."

Lupin was unfazed by his skepticism. "That's the spirit."

"What is a Patronus anyway?"

"A patron... a guardian," Lupin explained. "It's incorporeal, taking the form of light and shaped usually like an animal. I'll show you." He lifted his wand in an elegant sweep. " _Expecto Patronum_!"

Brilliant white light burst out of the smooth wooden tip and curled, rolling together to create a spectral creature. Harry barely dared to breathe as it brushed past, a phantom whisker running through his cheek.

"Mine is a wolf," said Lupin, right in his ear. He whipped his head around, having momentarily forgotten there was anyone else in the room. The professor was gazing at his Patronus, which was gamboling playfully around the perimeter of the room, with an expression half of shrinking and half of a pale joy that brightened his face so that it looked years younger.

"Why's that? Or is it random?"

Lupin let out a short huff of air that barely fell in the spectrum of laughter. "Oh, it certainly isn't by chance. The name Remus Lupin is practically synonymous with wolf."

The Patronus paused in the air from where it was sniffing the edges of the window and gave Lupin what seemed to be a reproachful look before vanishing. Lupin continued to stare with glassy eyes.

"Professor?" Harry scuffed his foot uneasily against a knot on the floor. "Excuse me, professor?"

He came back to himself with a self-deprecating shake of his head. "You may go, Harry. Come here tomorrow evening at five and I'll begin to teach you the basic wand movements."

* * *

"I say," said Harry, sitting up. He slung his legs over the side of the couch and rested his chin on his fists. "I just remembered. I drew a devil's trap last year, Luna, in my old room."

Luna, engrossed in a gaudily colored magazine, didn't bother to answer for almost a full minute, and the room was silent as Harry waited.

Without Margaret as an ally, he wasn't the most popular student in Slytherin, and Luna had offered him sanctuary in the Ravenclaw common room. The library got tiresome after so many hours spent researching, and as for the Gryffindor dormitory... well, suffice to say that he would probably be welcomed with even less enthusiasm by that house than his own.

"And?" Luna inquired once she reluctantly managed to make herself close the magazine.

"If it's still intact," Harry said, jumping to his feet, "then the demons that live there will be trapped inside. If they aren't, we'll know."

"Sounds good," Luna murmured, and returned to her reading.

"I swear, you're getting to be just like Hermione."

She stared at him with large solemn eyes. "Is that a bad thing?"

Perplexed, Harry knitted his brow. "No."

"You shouldn't say it like it is," Luna reprimanded, folding her hands primly. "Now what were you saying? I didn't hear; I was finishing the article on Crumple-Horned Snorcacks. By my dad," she added, for clarification.

"What's a Crumple-Horned Sn... never mind," he amended hastily at the enthusiastic gleam that lit her eyes at the question. "I said that I drew a devil's trap last year. A couple demons live in my old room. If none of the lines have been smudged or broken, then that's a perfect way to test whether or not the trap works."

"But then they'll be able to figure out that it's you who's hunting them."

"I'm pretty sure it won't be a secret either way," Harry told her, with a vague hand motion. "Although I'll try to stay incognito for a few weeks longer."

"So do you know which students are possessed?"

Theodore Nott, they discovered the next morning, had not been seen for two days. His evil henchman, Blaise Zabini, insisted it was because a head cold tethered him to his bed (if only!), but Harry took it as near proof that the trap was bona fide. Luna had doubts.

"You of all people should know never to trust a demon. It could be a blind, or a double blind, or a triple blind. Maybe it's a trap for _you_. Maybe the demon possessing Nott is really off reporting to a superior."

"I think," said Harry, "it could be any of those. But it could also mean that the devil's trap works, and I'm willing to risk a bit to confirm that."

If Luna hadn't been Luna, she probably would have thrown up her hands in frustration. As she was, she merely nodded in a resigned manner and told him he should bring lots of salt and holy water in case the operation went south.

"I'll stay behind. You would attract too much attention if Loony Lovegood marched into the common room at your side." She called herself by the unflattering nickname matter-of-factly. "Besides, I have to be out of danger in case something really bad does happen and I need to go for help. Am I the only one you've told?"

"Yes."

"I think we can count on Professor Lupin to rise to the occasion," Luna mused. "I'll give you twenty minutes before I get him."

As he hurried down to the dungeons, Harry could almost see the mental clock running down. 19:59... 19:58... 19:57... He turned a corner and nearly ran headlong into the wall. 19:49... 19:48... He knocked twice on the cool stone and gave the password. 19:40... 19:39...

The common room was empty except for two sixth or seventh year girls who were curled by the fire studying together. Harry slipped past them into the boys' dormitory and treaded lightly to his old room. 18:54... 18:53... 18:52... He pushed open the door with one fist gripping his holy water bottle.

His eyes were met with a queer sight. Humming quietly, Theodore Nott rocked gently back and forth as he folded sheets of paper into intricate shapes. Beside him there lay an old book with several of its pages torn out and its binding coming undone, and littered about the room were paper airplanes of various sizes. Theodore paused in his industrious toils.

"Oh. Hello, Harry."

Harry gulped down a startled exclamation. "Theodore?"

"Not exactly," said the boy, delicately making a final crease with ink-stained fingers. He balanced his completed creation expertly and tossed it in a smooth, elegant swoop straight to Harry, who caught it instinctively. Theodore's teeth gleamed white. "Nice catch."

"You're a demon," Harry stated, feeling strangely calm. It was barely out of the ordinary for him anymore. He flicked his eyes upward and saw the trap gleaming above them, neat and complete.

"Well spotted," said Theodore's lips. The deft hands were bending and folding and pressing with swift ease. "I assume you're here to gloat over a helpless foe before you send me back to Hell. You'll forgive me if I don't appear overly pleased to see you."

"Of course." Harry sat cross-legged just outside the boundary of the trap. "But first I want you to answer a few questions." _14:23... 14:22..._ his mind whispered. "Why are only you caught in the trap? What about Blaise… the thing that used to be Blaise?"

The demon rolled his eyes. "We both knew... we're not idiots. I stepped a bit too far to the right by accident. It was my own silly fault."

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm making paper airplanes to sell so I can donate money to the poor little children in Asia. A responsible British citizen… that's me." In response, Harry dashed a shower of holy water at his face. The demon scuttled as close to the edge of the trap as he could, hissing in pain and anger. "Don't you know better than to get paper wet? It destroys its form!"

"Do I look like I care?" retorted Harry carelessly, intoxicated by the feeling of complete control.

"Not about much," the demon sneered. "Why should I tell you anything? What can you do to me besides a piddling exorcism? I'm far more concerned about what might happen to me if I blab."

"Rough and tough higher-ups, are they?"

"You could say that."

"What would they do to you?"

The demon bared its teeth.

"Hellish things."

He wasn't going to talk. The realization came with a pang of annoyance and disappointment.

" _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potesta, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis congregatio_..." Harry recited the words mechanically, mental cogs turning, and ignored the demon's shrieks. The brief interrogation hadn't been entirely fruitless. There _were_ superiors, and some top secret demonic mission was being carried out – a mission about which its operatives didn't dare breathe a word. " _... te rogamus, audi nos!_ "

He dragged Theodore's unconscious body onto one of the beds and left after thoroughly scrubbing the Devil's Trap off the ceiling. When Nott woke up, the room would be overrun with professors and whatnot trying to determine why he had forgotten half the school year. It wouldn't do for them to find weird symbols.

The countdown! He halted in sheer terror for a split second. He had no idea how much time had elapsed since he stopped keeping track. Sprinting to the exit, he flew down the corridor, passing the place where he had left Luna and barreling onward. Finally he caught up, panting and wheezing, just as she was turning into the passage that led to Professor Lupin's classroom.

"Luna!" Harry gasped, grabbing her shoulder. "Stop! It's me! I'm fine, we don't need backup!"

" _Christo_! What took so long?!"

He sank against the wall. "I had a lot to do," he told her reproachfully, still gulping air. "And the trap works. I exorcised the demon in Theodore and cleaned up all the evidence. That's why it took a bit longer than we planned."

"I expect we can go right ahead and put up devil's traps around the school," said Luna, who for reasons unknown sounded rather reluctant. "How about tonight? I'll take care of the corridors near Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, and you can do the ones outside Hufflepuff and Slytherin. Use this." She handed him a small tub of translucent liquid. "It'll be mostly invisible, so no one else will notice."

Her doubt was contagious.

"You're sure about this?"

Luna smiled. "As I said, no one else will notice."

* * *

Circle, pentagram. Circle, pentagram. Almost completely doubled over, Harry traced a third circle and pentagram outside the Hufflepuff dormitory and straightened with a stifled groan of discomfort. The ceilings were too high for him to reach and if he drew them on the floor the paint would get smudged more quickly, so he was lining the walls on either side with three each in a vertical straight line. Small ones. He hadn't yet mastered the art of drawing perfect _and_ large circles.

He tensed at the sound of light footsteps padding towards him and shrank into a small alcove, wishing he had thought to bring the invisibility cloak. The footsteps paused several feet away – at just the right distance for him not to see their owner – and the creature _snuffled_.

Harry scowled in the darkness. Filch didn't snuffle. Neither did Mrs. Norris, despite her being an animal. For a brief, panicked moment he feared that Fluffy was on the loose.

The creature began to whine quietly, and Harry relaxed, a relieved grin spreading over his face.

"Why, you're just a regular dog," he whispered, crouching partway out of his nook. He patted the ground. "Come here, boy. I didn't know they let dogs in here."

The dog whined again and scampered closer, its matted hair pressed dark and wet against its body. It sniffed his outstretched hand curiously before giving him an experimental lick, followed by a barrage of ever more enthusiastic licks. Harry tumbled to the ground under the assault, half laughing.

"Well, aren't you friendly!" He scratched the damp thick fur on its chest vigorously. "You're very wet. Are you cold?" It stared at him with intelligent gray eyes as he felt around its neck for a collar. "I wonder who you belong to. Or are you a stray? I doubt a stray could get in here, though..."

His voice trailed off when he felt a cold wet lump at the base of its front leg.

"You're bleeding! What on earth happened to you? Here." Ron's dirty handkerchief still stuffed in his pocket and he wound it around the injured leg with painstaking care. "I'm busy right now," he told it while he worked, "but if you hang around I'll get you something to eat and maybe a towel to dry you off. The elves have probably got stuff in the kitchen I could use. You have to be quiet, though."

The shaggy black tail waved gaily, but almost as if it understood him, the dog didn't let out a sound while he finished the final encircled pentagrams and headed to the dungeons. Harry was glad for the company. Hogwarts was all very well during the day, but it was ancient and rather forbidding at night to travel through alone.

"I'm almost done," he announced, tracing a fifth trap on the left side of the entrance wall. "Just a few more minutes."

When he turned, however, the dog was gone. He jogged to the end of the hallway to peer down both passages at the intersection. The corridor was empty, or so it appeared. He swallowed his dismay at the dog's disappearance and went back to retrieve the translucent paint.

Some sixth sense was screaming for him to be on his guard. He paused, one fist closing down silently around the handle of his revolver and the other reaching for his holy water bottle. Making as if to fiddle with his sleeve, he brought the gun around to cock it, and in the same smooth motion he spun to face his assailant.

"Whoa!" Jeremy yelped, jumping back several paces. He lifted his head and his inky black eyes lined up with the gleaming barrel. "Dukes down, champ! I come in peace."

"What are you doing here?" Harry snapped, clenching the handle more tightly. His finger trembled on the trigger. The demon grimaced, reached out, and pushed the barrel away from his face.

"Don't, man. I hate the bang-bangs. Besides, the kid will die if you shoot him and I won't, so what's the use? We're on the same side. Lay down your arms so we can discuss things rationally."

"There isn't much to discuss," Harry said dryly, but he lowered the gun a little.

The demon frowned. "Er... I really think there is. I mean, I've got some important information that you might want."

"Why do you want to give it to me?"

"It's called self-preservation. Look, I have a tough boss whose guts I happen to hate, and if I was KIA she would probably dance a jig over my gravestone. Even if it's pretty hard to access. You get the point. I don't really want that to happen, see?"

"Continue. You get two minutes before I start the exorcism."

"How friendly." The demon sniffed sardonically. "Unfortunately for you, before I say anything you have to swear not to exorcise me. It's a tradeoff, buddy. I'm not giving out stuff for free."

"Did you think I'd actually agree to that?" It was all the more irritating because he himself thought he would. He motioned at the demon, still gripping his gun. "The boy you're possessing is my friend's cousin. I'm not going to let you stay in there."

"If I smoke out," retorted the demon impatiently, " _they_ will know that something happened."

"I don't care."

"Well, I do!" They glared at each other. Jeremy's eyes flickered to hazel again. "See here, kid," he said, in more genial tone, "I'll not keep him prisoner. I'll throw in a bonus and let you all talk to him from time to time. That's my final offer."

Harry hesitated. On one hand, Jeremy was practically family by association and he hated the thought of him being possessed for who knew how long. On the other hand, he was in desperate need of information and he doubted highly that another demon would crack and give it to him.

He lowered the gun completely and held out his hand. "Deal."

"Glad to see we're on the same page." The demon smiled, not unpleasantly. "My name's Henry, by the way."

Harry forgot to let go of his hand. "Demons have names?"

"Uh... racist much? Yes, we have names. In fact, I was a king once. Henry the Eighth." Henry wiped away an imaginary tear. "How the mighty have fallen."

Harry recoiled, staring at him in horror. "You're King Henry the Eighth of England?"

"You know about me? I must have made a mark in history."

"You killed two of your six wives!"

"Oh... that." The former king sniffed distastefully. "A gross calumny. One was a vampire and the other was a shapeshifter. What did you expect me to do? You've killed one of those disgusting bastards before. But I'd better fulfill my part of the deal now. First of all, the devil's traps don't work."

"You're lying. I just used one."

"Yes, and it didn't work," said Henry peevishly, pushing away the gun for a second time. "The demons were pretending to be stuck. How could you think a shitty drawing of a star inside a circle had enough power to catch us? We were given orders to trick you so you would keep believing it, though."

Although he was reeling internally, Harry managed to keep his outer expression from changing. "Is that all?"

"No. Secondly, I think you've heard that it's because of you that we're..."

" _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas_..."

Jeremy's head snapped backwards and Henry growled.

"What the hell! You said you wouldn't!"

"It's not me!" Harry protested. "Luna, stop it!"

The blonde girl stood, calm and collected, at the end of the passage, her hair forming that familiar soft halo around her face as she recited the Latin words. Henry's eyes widened as he took her in.

"Holy shit!" Coughing up gobs of black smoke, he groped at his side. Harry, spotting the motion, lunged at him a second too late as he thrust the long-bladed knife into his abdomen. Luna faltered.

"Damn it!" Harry swore, his heart pounding in terror.

Blood was spurting from the wound at an alarming rate. Henry straightened, one bloody hand pressing the incision, and he grinned.

"Exorcise me and the boy will die!" he shouted triumphantly at Luna. "You wouldn't dare do that, would you, cowardly swine?"

"Jeremy!"

Hermione's frightened shriek echoed through the hall as she and Ron tore towards them. Henry saluted them impudently.

"Ta-ta for now!" he taunted, and vanished.

* * *

 **Oops… shit hit the fan again. Oh, well.**

 **Reviews – especially constructive criticism – are always very much appreciated! Thank you!**


	19. Chapter 19

**Hey everyone,**

 **First of all, I'm sorry – I don't have a chapter for you today.**

 **I reread this story for the ten billionth time recently and decided I needed a beta. As a result, with the help and suggestions of SomniumAstrum (kudos to you, btw, because I'm pretty sure it's a pain in the ass to edit 90k+ words), I'm going to delete a number of the earliest chapters and rework the beginning so that it won't be a poorly written echo of J. K. Rowling's first book.**

 **Next chapter will therefore be Chapter 11 or 12 instead of Chapter 19. Just FYI and a warning.**

 **Thanks for your comments and support, and hopefully it will only take a week or so before I'm back on track.**

 **Sincerely,**

 **yankeebornandbred**


	20. Chapter 20

**Hi.**

 **Yeah, another author's note. I am an awful, horrible person, I know it.**

 **I am rewriting this story from scratch. As in, I am NOT continuing this version, and all my efforts will now turn to a new story called No End in Sight (for the time being anyway), for which I posted the prologue. It will be better quality since I have two betas now, it will be more concise, and – thank heavens – it will get to the interesting parts more quickly. AFITR was a bit of a drag.**

 **However, I understand that this must be an annoying and lengthy development for many of you who dislike reading rewritten stories. I get it, I really do, because I don't like doing that myself. So I'll post one last A/N after this one, once I get to the point where AFITR left off, to let you know that you can pick it up again if you want to. I can't guarantee that there won't be major changes or different characters, but rest assured that the main plot has remained the same throughout. But please check out No End in Sight. I promise, it's way better.**

 **Thank you, thank you, and thank you again to each and every one of you who reviewed, favorited, or followed, and even the lurkers and readers. I'm very happy that you seem to have enjoyed AFITR so far, and I hope you like its new and improved version.**

 **Sincerely,**

 **The author**


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